Redmond Diaries -the first year
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: Ever wonder what Anne Shirley really thought of a certain hazel eyed boy, or how deeply Gilbert Blythe fell for that irrepressible redhead? Curious about what Priss was really like, why Phil couldn't decide between Alec and Alonzo, and what Sloanishness is exactly? Here is everything you wanted to know -and some you'll wish you didn't. They're not children anymore...
1. Chapter I

_This story follows Anne of the Island chapter for chapter. There are approximately 40 chapters in this book so each year will cover ten chapters, starting at the first year and ending at the fourth._

**REDMOND DIARIES -****THE FIRST YEAR**_**  
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_**This is dedicated to my loyal band of sisters -you know who you are- when I write this I am thinking of you!**_

_**... ... ... **_

_**CHAPTER I -The Shadow of Change  
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_**Friday, August 21st, 1883.**_

_**On the porch of my beloved Green Gables, amongst the bounty of Avonlea, within the pearl of Abegweit, cradled upon the glittering sea.  
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Dearest of dear Diaries,

You bright little book with your crisp white pages, smelling fresh as a pillowcase hung out in the sun.

I have the _best_ news to tell and you mustn't be envious.

I know when I discovered you at Lawson's on Tuesday (poor thing you were, squashed under the almanacs) I promised you alone should be the keeper of my secrets when I went away to Redmond. And rest assured whatever friends I make during my four years away _-FOUR_ _YEARS!_- I cannot imagine a day that I don't turn to you.

If you should doubt my love then note how I address you with a capital letter, doesn't it look so much better that way? Though perhaps I should think of a proper name. Not a romantic, dreamy name, of course. I couldn't be telling my deepest, direst secrets to an Aurelia -as glittering as your gilded edges. Or an Esmeralda -in honour of the lucent green you wear. No you will need a more dependable name for you are to be my _absolute_ rock -though I shan't call you Peter.

Not because I have an abhorrence of boys -though Davy Keith might sometimes think otherwise. I happen to be friends with many nice boys and one who is very nice. Though nice is not quite the right word. But I can't bear to cross out anything on my _first_ page it would seem such sacrilege. Besides he _is_ nice and a very good chum. But if I called you Peter I should forever be thinking of Mrs Peter Sloane and I would rather admit that my hair isn't technically auburn than tolerate _that_.

To come to you, Diary, in my hour of bitterest need -or exulted delight- only to think of _Sloanes_. You can't know what that means exactly, though perhaps you might understand if I say that Sloanishness is to my billowing thoughts what a goat is to that crisp white pillowcase. Or perhaps not quite a goat more a bog. Yes a bog that sticks to your kidskin boots and the lacy trim of your best summer gown. Now that _is_ Sloanishness! It is not their fault for being a bog and in many ways can a bog be very useful. Not that I can think of an instant where they might be so, but still...

If I seem muddled it is simply because I am. When Marilla declared that I dust off my ambitions and hie me to Redmond I felt she had handed me the moon and I could not walk for soaring. But that was when I had a whole summer to drink in and my cup is almost empty now. _Now_ I am hurtling back to earth, filled with sinking thoughts about leaving my home, my schoolhouse, my Diana, my Island. I couldn't bring myself to write in you yet and have been waiting for that spark of delight to ignite this very first page. For as Reverend Allen always says- 'You must begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began'.

It occurs to me I might have filled you with my future fancies. Yet my thoughts _would_ keep turning to the only people who were coming to Redmond with me. Charlie Sloane -that epitome of Sloanishness, and Gilbert Blythe, who is that very nice chum I mentioned -though nice is not the word exactly. When you leave Eden the first thing you must do is find yourself a safe place to fall and when I think of Gilbert safe is not the word that springs to mind.* So where to fall? Because make no mistake I _will_ fall. I have never lost the knack of it in much the way I have never lost the knack for growing red hair. And when I'm all alone and on my knees and every hair on my head glows vermillion who should I turn to but you?

Now Diary, I want you to remember that as I tell you my wondrous news. Goodness, what a winding path I took to come to it.

I had a letter from Priscilla Grant today writing to say she is coming to Redmond after all! To know she will be there with me is to look upon the darkest cloud and see not silver but gold. She has already found us rooms at a boarding house close to the college though could not tell me more. Whereupon I must build my airy castle -or at least a cosy den- with a window seat and a pine scented air to lull me when I am longing for home. And as much as I will depend on you dearest Diary, I have to admit that sharing this adventure with a real, live girl -especially a honey like Priss- makes the bitter pill of leaving so much easier to swallow.

I have been eggshells about her coming for the longest time. I am sure it was that and not anything else -as I said we are good chums and he_ is_ very** ? **Well whatever the word that eludes me I am sure as the sun will rise and Ruby Gillis will marry before the year is out, that this pittery-scattery feeling will _finally_ stop now that Priscilla's father has _finally_ consented. Why Mr Grant prevaricated for so long! But that is forgotten now. _Now_ I shall send him a Christmas card every year. The expensive ones made of thick creamy card and hand coloured scenes. Now they _are_ nice!

I will not say that Gilbert isn't. But therein lies the problem because I am beginning to think he means to be _more_ than nice. And it's going to ruin _everything. _For proof please note that ever since he put his hand on mine this afternoon I haven't been able to write properly, which Diary, if you could look at yourself you would sadly attest to.

He is the brightest boy I know, not only in smarts but in heart and deed and yet sometimes he can be so clod headed. Bogs _and_ clods, you see why I had need of you! But tell me true, Diary, if a young man inquires as to your thoughts (was there ever a more dangerous question?) and you reply that you are afraid to speak for fear that all the beauty we had been admiring would vanish like a broken silence, should he not conclude that it was _not_ the time for talk!

That is unfair for he never said a word after that but let his _hand_ do the talking. And then didn't I have something to say. A babbling stream of nonsense poured forth at such a rate I am sure Marilla will be proved right and I won't have breath to cool my porridge.

Oh but why must he do this _now!_ When we are about to embark on our long cherished dream? If he should ever touch my hand like that again I shall _fail_ in the first term. Handwriting is rather essential I've heard. I credit him with spurring me on to unimagined heights of accomplishment, I doubt I would have set my sights on Redmond if I didn't have Gilbert Blythe always nipping at my elbow. _Now_ it seems he would rather tuck his arm around it.

And now I have an enormous blob of ink on the page and no blotter to hand. I should have crossed out nice when I had the chance.

*forgot to add Charlie here too.

**… … …**

**August 21st, 1883, Sloane House, Sloane Lane, Avonlea, P.E.I**

**Weather: **mild, slight sou' west breeze

**Time:** 8:12pm

**Ate:** Porridge with stewed prunes and Jersey milk; cold ham, cold potatoes and slaw; cold ham, boiled potatoes and slaw, and cold strawberry pie for afters; Jersey milk. Also sundry soft fruit and five peppermints (Lawson's not Blair's)

Good evening diary,

1) After perusal of previous entries have discovered I have yet to request fourth vest from Mother. She will have to knit in smartish fashion as I will need it packed post haste. I think a medium brown will be suitable to match my eyes, my hair, my shoes, my trousers and all my ties. Except my grey tie. But I have the grey vest for that.

2) Make inquiries as to the cost of Diana Barry's betrothal ring. It appears modest and Fred Wright is not the sort to be extravagant over trinkets which is pleasing because it means I shan't have to fork out more than necessary. If it pleases Diana as much as it appears too, she does rub her finger upon it overly much -will make further inquiries as to whether I should look into reinforcing the setting (extra cost?)- then by rights it should please her friend. Look into possibility of discovering which gem would be preferred. (Discreetly).

3) Purchase more diaries for college this week. Left it too late last year and was most vexed to discover the Hargraves brand had sold out -the binding on this one is second rate and still regret losses of May 28-June 2.

4) Have hair cut before the A.V.I.S. Farewell Party next week. Anne Shirley is to be given a copy of Shakespeare as a thank you (!) Am still cut up about being voted down 22-3 about my suggestion of a recipe booklet. Not only would it have cost everyone less but there is sure to be a copy of that playwright's works at Redmond library which Anne could read for free. Whereas the recipe book will stand her in good stead forever. Have also heard that she is not the cook nor seamstress Marilla Cuthbert is (possible to remedy?) See below:

4a) Look into Domestic Sciences at Redmond and persuade Anne to take one or two classes? (Also discreetly)

5) Learn a passage of Shakespeare by heart by the time of the Party -to recite with an improvised air. No doubt Blythe has memorised every play. Look into sonnets which are also shorter.

Respectfully, C. Sloane

**… … …**

**Friday, August 21st, 1883; Allwinds, Avonlea**

Greetings Diary,

Before we begin you should know I am writing this now to settle a matter of conscience rather than a matter of need.

Josiah Allen, a fine fellow and an excellent minister, called me to him after his final service last Sunday, all stern mouth and laughing eyes -a look I shall benefit the learning of if I ever become a doctor. And if I am honest would have preferred its learning far more than what he gave me, which is of course this book.

He believes that in these hectic years ahead I will not have much time for reflection which I believe was his polite way of saying church. In any case he thought you/ this book should remedy my moral decline to some degree, and to some degree I feel I should live up to Mr Allen's expectations.

Thus my entry in you/ this book-

Already this won't do. There are too many variables and uncertainties in my life as it is, well only one -but such a one. The universe may be described as one while containing infinite mysteries as can never be discovered. At all accounts on the question of address when I consider the word 'diary' the first words that come to mind are:

airy, arid, dray, yard, raid, aid, air, day, and dry, though I find myself drawn to dairy, that, or Ida. Somehow I cannot imagine confiding to an Ida. And if I think of dairy I will only start thinking of a tall glass of milky-white coolness and then nothing will ever get writ. Accordingly this book is relegated to notebook and in this let me note:

Do get Father's assurance that Domino isn't loaned to Andrew Fletcher's little girl while I'm at Redmond. The poor horse will want breaking in all over again if Pippa-Fay gets her hands on him.

Do confirm whether Mr Sadler needs help clearing the back field. Every penny counts.

Do ensure that the Pye's two votes and the Sloane one does not -for a reason that only Pyes or Sloanes could demonstrate- prevail over the other twenty-two votes. I know Anne will adore that volume of Shakespeare and if Pyes and Sloanes should win the day I'll just have to dig up Sandler's entire farm in order to get it for her. Besides it won't hurt to build up a little more -football season beckons.

Do persuade Mother to hunt out more gooseberries -I could live on her preserves and a hunk of bread and dread the weeks ahead being made to gnaw on the sweaty haunch of ham the Sloanes are curing for Charlie. If he insists on hanging it in our room I shall have no recourse but to hide all his brown ties.

Do not, no matter what, no matter if it's on fire, no matter if it's the only thing that reaches for me in a roiling sea, DO NOT put my hand on Anne's.

EVER EVER AGAIN.

**… … …**

**Green Gables, the wee sma's**

Dearest,

I have just thought of the sweetest little name for you, contained within your own good self no less. Henceforth you shall be Ida! Such a capable, hard working name to accompany me on my many labours.

Don't mind the pencil, I can't be doing with ink at this hour.

Goodnight, Ida!

**… … …**

**I haven't highlighted the phrases taken from chapter one, but there are plenty -you could play spot the quote perhaps! Or maybe I'm the only one who find that fun...**


	2. Chapter II

**In the last chapter it was Anne that gave me all the trouble, and Charlie that came out fully formed. This week Charlie is the one to give me a headache -but I think he does that to most people. Thank you for your brilliant words of encouragement, without further ado here again is Charlie Sloane (you might want to take a pill first)**

**CHAPTER II- Garlands of Autumn  
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**28th August, 1883, Sloane House, Sloane Lane, Avonlea, P.E.I.**

**Weather:** Mild with partial cloud cover (strato-cumulous)

**Time:** 11:06

**Ate:** porridge with stewed prunes and Jersey milk; cold ham and cold potatoes; chicken pie, chicken leg, devilled chicken livers (8), gooseberry tartlets (4); snow apples (2), berry tart (indefinite variety -loganberry?), plum preserves, peach preserves and custard for afters; apple punch, tea; ten peppermints (Lawson's not Blair's)

A very good evening diary,

1) Have just returned from walking Anne Shirley home from A.V.I.S. Party this evening. Though generally silent (symptom of love?) she did agree with me on the excellence of the gooseberry tartlets and wondered over the making of them. To think that the booklet I had in mind for her had a blank section at the back; she could have spent her time at the party writing out recipes. Suspicion that Anne Shirley would have preferred my gift confirmed by two facts.

a) Upon receiving the Shakespeare book she began to cry.

b) After Blythe quoted Shakespeare at her (as predicted) she snubbed him entirely.

2) Regrettably could not impress Anne with my repertoire (for reasons above), though since remembered upon return walk home that 'Drink to me only with thine eyes' is not by Shakespeare but Johnson. Considered walking back to Green Gables and reciting it to her but felt uncomfortably full. Have since enjoyed a good amount of relief but will take extra portion of prunes with tomorrow's porridge as an added measure.

3) Unfortunately this will put schedule out by one day.

4) Fortunately all outstanding tasks completed bar one. In regards to this ask Reverend Allen (discreetly) if it accords with Presbyterian doctrine to seek permission to marry on a Sunday. Personally I do not think that it should be considered work. Though this wooing business has demanded a high degree of effort on my behalf; what with rote learning five sonnets, sticking close to Anne -who has a tendency to wander away whenever I am near (also a symptom of love?), and ascertaining the cost of betrothal rings (!)

5) Observe Marilla Cuthbert's fingers at service tomorrow for alternative source. (Pinky ring might do as she has large hands.)

6) During marriage interview determine whether Marilla might part with a piece of jewellery. Am appalled at the price Fred Wright paid to secure Diana Barry but Mother steadfastly will not part with hers which is a pity as it is a good diamond.

Respectfully, C. Sloane

**… … …**

**The Palisades, Aug. 28  
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Well, all I can say is thank goodness that's over!

I am exhausted. _Exhausted._ Up and down the stairs I don't know how many times. Ruby Gillis swore that diuretic tea would take five pounds off my hips, but I rather think it's the constant need to be always running up to the washroom that causes the weight to come off. At least we have indoor plumbing it would have been humiliating to scurry to an _outhouse_ every twenty minutes!

As if that wasn't bad enough Anne Shirley turned up a good thirty seconds before the party was due to start (of course she would, all the better to squeeze out every drop of attention for herself) wearing a dress in the _same _fabric as mine. Gertie will _never_ let me hear the end of it! I had to act as though my new crepe was an old rag I wear around the house and had no choice but to put on my emerald brocade with the russet overskirt which I haven't been able to squeeze into for _months_.

What a time I had trying to get Gertie's attention. She was supposed to be handing out the tarts not stuffing them into her face -I only got _four_ in the end! But wasn't she mad when I made her come upstairs. Well somebody had to tighten my stays, I would have burst out the sides otherwise. She yanked me in so viciously and I can tell you a tight corset on a full bladder is _not_ to be sniffed at.

Drat that Ruby Gillis! I'd be twice as grateful to Anne for _finally_ leaving if she had managed to convince Ruby to leave with her. At least I had the pleasure of seeing that yellow haired flirt walk home with Gilbert Blythe tonight. And I know _why_ too.

Earlier this evening I saw him leap over our grand stone porch and into Mother's best topiary. An eight foot drop just to fetch Anne Shirley's _fork_. I don't know why she couldn't just eat with her fingers. But then she always did go out of her way to best everyone in her acquaintance. If I did the Queens course in two years _she_ had to do it in one. If get a diploma _she_ aims to get a degree. If I buy a china blue print _she_ has to buy a china blue print and have it made into a more becoming style. And now forks. She probably lost it on purpose just to keep Gilbert's attention on her. I am sure that's the _real_ reason she's going to Redmond. Gilbert declares he's going to Redmond and suddenly _Anne's _going to Redmond too!

Not that I have the least bit of sympathy for Gil. He makes a perfect _fool_ of himself for her while she goes about pretending not to notice. But I'm sure Anne _loved_ it for all she looked knives at Alice and Em when they hinted that now her "bosom friend" was engaged she was just bound to be next.

That was when Anne stormed out to the porch. I only followed her because I was wanting to sit on the swing bench and tuck up my feet. They are_ so _swollen I can still see the marks where the straps cut in. I swear I am _retaining_ water. That Gillis nincompoop, I bet she got me the _wrong_ tea!

I was just getting comfortable and was about to ask Gil to bring me a glass of apple punch when Anne decided to drop her fork. Well, you'd think it was a _baby_ the way Gilbert jumped after it. But of course Anne wouldn't have that and she went down the steps to look for it herself just as Gilbert climbed up the porch wall to give it back to her. Fortunately Charlie turned up then which meant someone could get me my drink but in the meantime Anne calls up, all innocently, '_Gilbert Blythe, how on earth did you get up there?'_ Which goes to show how _little_ she really knows him because Gil could climb a tree when he was two years old. And then _he_ says... I have the exact quote right here -I don't need to wait for someone to _buy_ me a book, we Pyes have a _substantial_ library- yes, so he says-

_On love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out..._

Now I couldn't see his expression as he said it because he had his back to me but I could I see hers as she came up the steps. And the _look_ on her face! You'd think he'd been quoting Macbeth for the toil and trouble on her freckled little features. Not even Romeo is good enough for Anne Shirley these days, least of all Gilbert Blythe. Perhaps Tilly's mother is right and Anne means to see is she can catch a _rich_ man first.

Well, and there might be something to that. Not that the Sloanes are rich, not by _my_ standards, but they are considerably wealthier than the Blythes and who did Anne go inside with then but Charlie Sloane!

He never did come back with my punch. Typical.

**… … …**

**Saturday, August 28th; Allwinds, Avonlea**

Add quoting Shakespeare on list of things NEVER to do again.

**… … …**

**Sunday, August 29th on the eve of a new epoch, in my white gabled room, in my green gabled house, under blue gabled Avonlea skies.  
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Dear Ida,

I have just had the queerest conversation with Marilla. This is the second time in a week that she has _sat_ on my bed. I could barely follow the words that came after and write in you now in the hope for better understanding.

She wanted to know -again I can scarce believe I am writing the words- what my feelings were for _Charlie Sloane_. One might as well ask what one's feeling were for cod liver oil. While it might be good in and of itself the best one could hope for were very small doses taken as infrequently as possible. But somehow I couldn't see Marilla having much sympathy with that character assessment, especially on a Sunday. And while Sloanes _are_ Sloanes they are also _only_ Sloanes. Not Pyes -or _Mrs Harmon Andrews_.

But I am forgetting myself. With the sweet taste of that apple did I vanquish all bitterness toward that woman (I wanted to write _good_ woman but my pen simply refused.) She has an unparalleled talent for putting me in a funk -do you suppose that could that pass for a compliment? Trust Gil to know how to cheer me again. This afternoon he seemed to know I would be in poor spirits and with what _wonder_ to he set me to rights. He took for for a ramble through the woods, and there amongst the pines and spruces all by its orphaned self an apple tree stood. Not the mean, spindly sort one sometimes finds; more stick than leaf, more worm than fruit. This bore a manna from heaven with a flavour so wild and delightful that the commonplace seemed new to me again. I felt like God's first woman tasting earth's first apple. And here I've been describing Avonlea as my Eden!

Sometimes Gilbert and I are so alike. So why does he do things he _knows_ will vex me. Wasn't it enough that half the members of A.V.I.S. were asking when he and I would be 'setting a date' -but to add fuel to the fire by acting the Romeo! And in front of _Josie Pye_. At least I won't be around to hear how she'll twist that silly scene into something so distorted it bears no resemblance to the original. Which reminds me apparently she and I were wearing the same blue print when I first arrived at the party. Not that I noticed, it was Gertie who let it slip. It was a delicate crepe dappled with maidenhair ferns but Josie's was stretched so tautly about her figure I mistook the pattern for peony heads.

Obviously the power of the apple is wearing off. I feel like that princess lost in dreams and tomorrow will wake. Though this analogy is not quite perfect because I am certainly _not_ waiting for my prince. If only someone would believe me!

I feel that even Diana is giving me sideways hints now. Nothing so nettling as the others, of course, it is only that sometimes she falls into saying 'when _we_ are married, when _we_ have children, when _we_ are living by one another'. And I feel so caught because as much as I love my Eden I do want to go beyond its bounds. Yes, I do! I am glad to admit that to myself and not only because it soothes my grieving heart but also because honours the feelings of those I am leaving. They can let me go more readily if they see that I _want_ to go. They love me well enough to do that -even Davy does, deep down.

I don't know who will have the harder time saying goodbye tomorrow. I have this uneasy idea that I should keep my trunk by me and open it every half hour to check to see whether little imp has hid himself inside it. As I dwell in the clamouring splendour of Kingsport I shall have to keep hold of my Island in the same way. Hiding it inside and coming to it in quiet moments, taking it out, pressing it against me and breathing it in as if I stood upon her shores; the blue before me, the green behind, and a long red road to lead me home.

I am glad that Gilbert is coming with me after all. And half expected that if Marilla should come to me with awkward questions as to my affections for some young man it would be for him. But _Charlie Sloane!_ What on earth put that idea in her head? She is clearly as addled as I am and could not stop fidgetting with the little gold ring that she wears on a Sunday. It was her mother's and worn so thin it looks like a strand of Fairy's hair tied about her finger. I have always loved its simplicity but the way she fussed over it as we talked -she is as bad as Diana.

And as _good_ as Diana. I told Marilla that my darling girl would be tending to Matthew's grave in my stead and was glad I did because then all thoughts of marriage and princes and Josie and Charlie were forgotten. She held me to her as she did the night Matthew died and it is something else to be held in the firm embrace of Marilla Cuthbert. One has the feeling that nothing and no one could harm you again. I can still feel her protecting arms about me now and will carry her with me, not in my trunk, but my heart. Though for good measure I might get up an hour earlier tomorrow morning and get myself a little bushel of those apples.

Now I shall tuck you within your dear little cover and myself in my dear little bed.

Goodnight Ida! Goodnight little room, let me dream the sweetest dreams in you for one last time...

**… … …**

**Monday, 30th August; Bright River Station  
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Nearly left this book behind this morning and while I am certain that nothing on these pages would entertain Mother to any large degree (though she does have the Gillis tendency to laugh at everything) I see it will have its uses.

For example I am writing now instead of having to listen to Charlie as we wait for the train to Carmody. My new fountain pen writes easily though I must watch I don't fall into Sloanish habits -Charlie has kept a diary since he was five. I found out because he came to Allwinds late last evening wanting to know if there was any chance of me carrying his ham bone in my trunk because his trunk is filled with diaries. About as much chance as Rachel Lynde declaring her Sapphic love for Marilla Cuthbert, I told him. He doesn't dare keep his books at home while he is away -though what scandals he wishes to conceal. I've known him all my life and the worst thing he's ever done is write poetry to Miss Stacey. I know this because I had to listen to it. One hundred rhyming couplets.

Miss Stacey, Miss Stacey. You make my heart go racy.

Apparently it is apples for Anne. At least she didn't look as though she wanted to throw one at my head. I admit with all this romance in the air -supposing you could characterise the courtship of Diana and Fred as romantic, though the Irvings certainly are- that a part of me entertained the foolish dream of proposing to Anne before we left for Redmond. I told myself it would ease Marilla Cuthbert's mind knowing I would be there for her girl though that would be nothing to the peace it would give me.

If I could just get Anne to look at me the way she did after Miss Lavendar's wedding.

I might as well make a clean breast of it and admit I have been preoccupied with discovering exactly what it was I did that day, and whether I will be able to do it again. That sounds as though I have been experimenting on poor Anne -how wrong that phrase looks, it is impossible to think of Anne and poor in the same context. But I'm not ashamed of my preoccupation. I know any fellow would feel the same if those silvern eyes ever looked at him they way hers looked at me.

Anne, Anne. I mean to win you if I can.

I will definitely be taking this book with me now. Or burning it.

**… … …**

**Again this chapter is sprinkled with phrases from Chapter II. Would someone like to suggest a line from Chapter III and I'll see if I can work it in for the next installment. **

**Many, many thanks to you all, K**


	3. Chapter III

**Thank you for your reviews and your quote suggestions :o) I am sorry that this installment has taken longer than usual, though I don't know if you will be sorry or relieved to know that Charlie was not inclined to write today -he was too seasick!**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. -everything is hers only this idea is mine**

** CHAPTER III- Greeting and Farewell  
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**Orchard Slope, Monday 30th August, 1883 -up in the garret.**

Dear Journalette,

Can you believe the last entry I wrote was in the spring of 1877!

After all that trouble with the Haunted Wood Mama forbade me ever writing in you again because she said it encouraged me to have morbid thoughts. But then she never wanted me to keep a diary in the first place. Because a diary is for secrets and why would a daughter want to keep secrets from her mother?

I got the idea from Ruby. She knew where her sisters hid their diaries and would sometimes recite passages to us from their pink, scented pages. Of course Anne would storm off in high dungeon at this _travesty of trust_ and I lost interest soon after. All the Gillis girls ever wrote about was which beau had broader shoulders or brighter eyes, or whether a thick head of hair should trounce a shapely nose. And when I think of who Myra ended up marrying -why he has _neither! _

But the idea of a diary still thrilled me. Something in a smart maroon leather with a filigree lock and a tiny brass key. As I said Mama said no, but after praying over it with Mrs Allen she decided I might keep a journal -but _only_ to recount the day's events and all my blessings. I tried to hide my disappointment when I unwrapped you -such a nasty shade of brown- and decided then and there to christen you Journalette. Because as Anne taught me a pretty name makes up for a lot.

I think perhaps I might write in you more often now because Anne left for Redmond today. I feel so lonely without her, and when I came home from Bright River station this morning Mama took one look at my sorry self and ordered me to find something useful to do. She said that pining stole a girl's good looks and if I wanted proof then I should look at Marilla Cuthbert. I don't know though because no one works harder than Marilla so by rights she should be the handsomest woman in all Avonlea.

So here I am in the garret. I am supposed to be looking for the pattern to make a pineapple doily with filleted edges but that was forgotten the moment I discovered my dear ol' journal. I wish I could go downstairs and grab myself some warm milk and a thick slice of pie to devour as I hide up here but then I risk running into Mama. So instead I am listening to the raindrops on the iron roof and trying to ignore my rumbling belly as I delve into days of your.

Though perhaps Mama is right about diaries for I miss Anne more then ever now. _Every_ page is filled with her. I was half looking for any mention of my dearest Fred but of course the only boy I wrote about in those days was Gilbert Blythe.

I can't imagine ever liking him so much, not that you'd know I liked him from what I'd written. It's mainly just Gilbert Blythe spat a spruce chew at me, or Gilbert Blythe missed crysanthamum, or Gilbert Blythe has such a short haircut there's not one curl left on his head. Because I had to make sure that everything I wrote was something Mama could read afterwards. That was why she took my journal away and hid it in the garret. She saw what I had written about that dead baby's ghost and _that was that!_

I never much missed the writing though, not when I had Anne. Oh, but I don't have her now and I miss her _so_ much I don't care if I ever find that pineapple doily pattern.

Besides if I lose my looks Fred won't mind a jot. He says my pretty face is the least of my qualities and that's how I know he loves me. Because as Gilbert once said 'being smart is better than being pretty' which everyone knows is how an Island boy says 'she's the one for me'.

Of course Anne's not from the Island so she wasn't to know that. But I reckon if she comes back to us (and as much as she denies it I know there's a good chance she won't -her 'dark ideal' is just bound to live in a big city like Kingsport) but _if _she does then it will be because she knows in her heart that here is where she truly belongs.

Oh Anne, you will come back to Avonlea won't you?

Mama calls! _To be cont..._

**… … …**

**Same day, on the boat to Nova Scotia.**

Thought I should note that the reason pages have been torn from this book is not due to a reckless moment of passion but because we were in need of paper. Anne and I have been contriving to distract Charlie from his seasickness by playing word games, the results of which made for some decent fun.

We each had a minute (measured by Charlie's nifty new timepiece) to create as many sentences as we could from various names, the best of which I'll list now. Not because I am especially wanting to record them. But because I want to appear absorbed in what I am doing so that Anne doesn't suspect I have noticed the way our boots are touching as we sit with our feet up on either end of the banquette.

It was decreed that I made the best phrase from Prince Edward Island with 'wanderers candid lip'. Anne was declared the winner of Northumberland Strait with_ '_thunderbolts arm train'. We gave Charlie the word Kingsport and he came up with the boggling '_pork sting'_ and '_skirt pong'_. Am regretting writing that now as every time I think of his answers I want to burst with laughter and if I move one muscle Anne is certain to feel my ankle brush against hers. Head down, Blythe, and keep writing.

For Charlie Sloane- Anne wrote 'a chlorine sale', Charlie wrote 'a close inhaler', and I wrote 'alien chorales'.

For Anne Shirley- I wrote 'insanely her' (this cost me a look of scorn but it was worth it), Anne wrote 'shine nearly', and Charlie wrote 'he yearns nil'.

For Gilbert Blythe- Anne wrote 'yet bright bell', Charlie wrote 'thy gerbil belt' (very funny Sloane), and I wrote 'belly get birth'.

Charlie thought it was rather improper to mention such a phrase in front of Anne. (This from the man who came up with skirt pong.) Charlie Sloane, Anne said, need I remind you that I grew up on a farm -I have some notion of how these things come about! And then proceeded to go a delightful pink. I love the way Anne talks of growing up on the Island as though she was born there.

She has moved her feet now. Of course she has, she sensed that I wrote the words love and Anne in the same sentence. From now on I shall just have to think to myself- heavenly lone iris.

**… … …**

**Monday 30th, August; St John's Street, Kingsport, Nova Scotia**

_**Priss Report #198**_

Have just got my dear Anne-girl off to bed. The moment I saw her at the station she fell into my arms with exhaustion, wailing about how green and provincial she felt. A feeling I could understand all too well -that last leg of the journey from the harbour to Kingsport is dire. I felt like a washed out rag when I arrived here on Saturday. All I wanted to do was send a telegram to Papa and tell him he had better go with his first opinion and keep me at home because I wasn't cut out for college life after all.

But as Anne stepped off the train tonight, blinking her big grey eyes like a new born foal, I felt quite the city sophisticate. This time I made sure I had already secured a good coach and waited for the coachman to get the trunks instead of scampering about in search of a porter. I don't suppose I shall appear so clever tomorrow when we are to register at Redmond but nevertheless I mean to enjoy the feeling while I may.

The only one of us freshers who looked as though he was born for this was Gilbert Blythe. He's always carried himself with oodles of confidence but that's no great accomplishment when one is a big fish in a small pond. Yet tonight he looked as though the nine hour trek he'd just taken was nothing more than his typical Monday jaunt. He seems years older than us. Handsomer too.

I am glad he and Anne are good chums because that means we may make the most of Miss Hannah's decree and have 'gentlemen callers' two nights a week. Though that pleasure will be somewhat diminished as Gilbert is bound to bring Charlie Sloane with him. What an unfortunate personage. He might be tolerable if he had any wit about him but the only diverting thing about Charlie are his goggly eyes. Honestly, when he was trying to help Gilbert with the trunks I thought one eye was about to burst from its socket!

At all accounts I aim to cast my net wider than those two boys -well one boy- I would rather starve than be made to dine with Charlie Sloane for the rest of my life. But I have had my fill of all that P.E.I has to offer and I am determined that not even the gorgeous Gilbert will turn my head.

No more Island boys for me. Give me someone witty, well read and most importantly, well heeled. This is a new start for you, Priscilla Grant, a fresh chance at a new life.

You see, Nate Rawley I am practically over you already!

**… … …**

**Orchard Slope, 30th August -in my bedroom**

Dear Journalette,

Sorry to have left you half finished but now I have managed to smuggle you into my room you shall never langwish in that old trunk again. And that's not the only thing I have brought in here without Mama's permission. A darling bunch of pink and white anemones are sitting on my dressing table. The name of that flower always gives me trouble, even now I have to use Anne's old trick to remember how to spell it -Arabella now enjoys my own nice egg sandwiches. Oh, I just bet this journal is filled with spelling eras!

Fred arrived just after luncheon and the poor boy was so sodden from all the rain we've had today he wouldn't dare to come inside lest he put puddles on Mama's floor. So I had to put on my horrid old oilskin and sit with him out on the porch. That was when he put his hand inside his coat and pulled out a crumpled bouquey of the windflowers Mrs Eben Wright is famed for. He looked so sweet! His eyelashes were all dark with the rain and his face so chilled he didn't look red at all but a nice, even pink. I thought then and there that _no one_ was as pure and good inside and out as _my_ Fred.

He knew I'd be mopey because Anne has gone, and of course he was a little down about losing Gilbert too. He'll be sorely missed at harvest time, Gil helped a lot with the planting this year -no one can fill a sack faster. Though it's _my_ Fred that can plough the straightest furrow. He'd been out in the fields that morning and was spending his lunch hour bringing me flowers. His hands hadn't been properly scrubbed, and though I hardly liked getting sprayed with drizzle I _was_ glad Mama was inside and didn't get an eyeful of the dirt under his fingernails.

I suppose that's why he didn't try and hold hands with me but I did give him a little peck on the cheek. Of course Minnie-May was spying through the curtains and saw everything! I don't think she'll say anything about it, though Papa would say _plenty_ if he knew we were kissing on the front porch in broad daylight! Fred's skin was all wet and bristly against my lips and when I drew back I saw that he'd gone his regular red colour again.

When I came back inside Mama had her eyes on my anemones -Mrs Eben's win prizes in Charlottetown- and even talked of fetching her Boheemian glass vase from the Spare Room. But it came to nothing because then Minnie-May's kitten began sharpening her claws on the back of Papa's armchair. Oh I could kiss that pesky kitten sometimes. But _those_ kisses don't satisfy anymore. I only want kisses from Fred. Lots of wet, red kisses. I wonder what it will be like to kiss him on the mouth? Goodness I must find a good hiding place for you now, Journalette. Imagine if Mama ever read that?

_To be cont..._

I had to creep downstairs and look about for another pitcher because Fred's flowers are in mine. The rain has finally stopped now, and I looked glumly out my window and searched for Anne's light shining from her little gable room. But all was black, there's just a silvery moon, the kind that Anne would say the rain had washed clean. Oh, I would rather have Anne and the rain than a bunch of flowers. But I would rather have Fred than anyone.

**… … …**

**Thank you again for reading, I love knowing that I made you smile even for a little while. You know I even make myself laugh, I don't know why but skirt pong still makes me snort as much as Gilbert.**

**In the next installment we shall meet the startling Philippa Gordon...**


	4. Chapter IV

**So here is my attempt at the ever undecided, ever startling Phil Gordon. I hope she makes more sense to you than she does to herself.**

**CHAPTER IV -April's Lady  
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**Tuesday 31st August, Wallace Street, Kingsport**

_**The Ochre Notebook**_

Misery mine!

I have just returned from that spooky old cemetery around the corner when I came upon those girls I mentioned earlier. One tall and pale as a fountain of water -I _do_ like girls like that because I look so petite and vivid in comparison. The other a red head. Not a carrot top or a ginger puss -a veritable red head, her perfect nose dressed with imperfect freckles.

Whether I could like a girl like _that_ I'm not so sure. For it will take a discerning eye to appreciate her beauty. And as I only like to be surrounded by discerning beaux there is a good chance she could outshine me. In fact I _know_ she will. She was wearing the primmest little pin tucked shirtwaist. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw it, imagining the effort she must have taken over such a dowdy looking garment. Yet as I stood next to her I had the oddest sensation of being made to look faddish and overdressed.

What am I to do? I am desperate for decent chums. Especially after Delia Dawlish declared she didn't see the point in my remaining in her set if I was bent on going to Redmond. She is under the impression that the only girls who try for Bachelor degrees are bespectacled, dried up, spinsters-in-the-making. If I should dare to replace her with two potato pickers that nasty cat will _never_ let me hear the end of it -which appears to be my fate at the moment.

But there is worse to report because I began boasting. To_ country _girls! I couldn't help it, I really wanted them to like me. And let me tell you I am a terror when I _decide_ that I want something because then I become convinced that I shan't get it. Not that such a thing has ever happened to me before but I hear it's a horror to go through.

Which is why I can never decide whether Alec or Alonzo shall win my hand. I can't bear that one of them should suffer such bitter disappointment -I shall have to choose my wedding flowers wisely as I am apt to end up placing them on the loser's grave. If only there were _two_ of me. Speaking of which I feel inclined to write cheerfully now...

_**The Rose Notebook**_

I know now what Victor Hugo meant when he wrote, "What makes night within us may leave stars."

For three whole days I have endured unimagined horrors -what with yawping cats and stewed tea and only _two_ eggs for breakfast! I had about decided I would prefer to face Mother's crowing, Father's sulking, and Delia's vile little circle than suffer such hardship for another minute when the gloom did part. And what did I spy but the brightest of constellations.

The first star was Anne. Such a flaming individual and the reason I could never make up my mind whether to say hello or not. One moment she was the dreamiest, loveliest, cleverest girl. And the next I felt so horribly intimidated by her, certain she would see through me in a minute and leave me lonelier than ever.

Her friend Priscilla is a willow tree to my little brown nut, with a regal elegance I can only dream of. Not that I honestly have. It must be intolerable being a head taller than most other boys. But once she has _me_ by her side I shall make them all mad for her. Probably the thing to do is invent a craze for parties where everyone sits down.

Oh, Philippa Jean Lillian Forbes Gordon! Go back to your nasty Ochre Notebook and be your awful, selfish self again or admit there is _one_ boy who would suit Priss down to the ground (and what a long way down it is.) That Gilbert fellow was _really_ something and quite tall enough for Priscilla. So if you aspire to be the sort of girl who would put her chum before some mere mannie -surely they exist outside of novels- then _here_ is your chance.

_**The Ochre Notebook**_

Though if Gilbert happens to fall for me I can hardly help that now, can I?

**... ... ...**

**Friday 3rd September, Wallace Street**

_**The Rose Notebook**_

Well, who knew! Goodness _is_ it's own reward! I have been thinking on how to secure an introduction to the fabulous Gilbert (for Prissy's sake, of course) and thought I would have to resort to asking that funny faced boy to carry my books. He was at the library yesterday and it seemed that every time I turned around there were his bulging brown eyes staring back at me. I believe I would have asked him too -in another day or so- but lady luck was on my side.

I went over to St John's Street for tea this evening -I hadn't been invited, I was literally in need of tea. I am positive the stuff Miss Eglantine doles out is making my hair go frizzy. Fortunately I have the cleverest milliner so it hardly matters if my hair behaves or not. I _was_ glad to have gone with my peacock chapeau -the way it falls over one eye is _so_ becoming- because as I was ushered into the parlour who should be sitting there but _Mr Gilbert_ _Blythe._

His last name is Blythe! Have you ever heard such an adorable name? Now if Alonzo had a last name like that I mightn't mind marrying him so much. The other boy was there too. He recognised me instantly of course, and proceeded to push all Miss Ada's cushions onto the floor so that I might sit by him. His name was Sloane (forget his first name) and sad to say is neither relation to the Dunbar Sloanes, or as I had vainly hoped, Gilbert Blythe's valet.

It turns out that both Mr Blythe and the Sloane boy hark from the Island too, and are old chums of Anne and Prissy. Needless to say they are also as poor as Anne and Prissy which is a piercing disappointment. As I foresaw upon my first meeting with Anne Mr Blythe is certainly a man of discernment -meaning he could barely drag his eyes away from a certain red head all evening. Handsome, intelligent and so deliciously fun. But alas as poor as Miss Eglantine's mean little breakfasts.

_**The Ochre Notebook**_

So my latest fancy turns out to be a farm boy. That explains why every time I caught sight of him he was always wearing the same jacket and cap. Very nicely made, of course. I suppose his mother must be a decent little stitcher.

I can't make up my mind whether his devotion to Queen Anne is unforgivable or not. On the one hand I like to know that _every _pair of eyes is focused solely upon me. I knew I shouldn't suit playing second fiddle, I am certainly not used to it and hope I never shall be. However, since Mr Blythe is clearly not marriage material then I ought to let Anne have him.

I have given up on him falling for Prissy. As much as it galls to admit he appears to be a lost cause. Is there anything so alluring as a man in love -besides the rather shapely arms under his shirt sleeves? If Alec had a build like Gilbert Blythe I might forgive him for having an indifferent nose.

Happily Anne is as muddled as I am. For in one moment I almost wanted to ask if she and Gilbert would like the rest of us gooseberries to leave the room and the next she disappeared completely. Poor honey, I suppose she has even more to consider than I do. Anne is such a wondrous creature and would make a sensation in Bolingbroke. She must know she was meant for more than some insignificant Island life.

Well _I_ certainly am. And whenever I find myself recalling those superior biceps of Gilbert Blythe's I shall just say to myself -potato, potato, potato!

**… … …**

**Friday 3rd September, St John's St, Kingsport  
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_**Priss Report #203**_

Tonight the Misses Shirley and Grant have had the first of what I hope will be many gentleman callers.

Charlie Sloane arrived first with two roses for Anne._ Two!_ How is one supposed to arrange such a number with any style? They fell apart in the vase like a pair of legs. I was given marigolds. I would rather credit Charlie with swiping them from our neighbour's front garden than suppose he actually paid money for them. But he would probably need a month of planning and a permission slip before he could bring himself to make such an impulsive gesture.

Gilbert came a half hour later and brought only his good self. You may imagine which of the two Anne and I were more grateful for.

I cannot make head nor tail of Anne and Gilbert. They seem so chummy and like minded as though they had grown up brother and sister rather than arch enemies. It seems unimaginable that Anne ever bore him a five year grudge, though I saw it myself at Queens. There has never been any flirtatiousness between them. No lingering touches or overlong laughter -none of the embarrassing things that I did myself in another life. But now something new has developed where the two of them go unnervingly quiet. As soon as that happens Anne will invariably find something to do on the other side of the room (or the other side of the campus, or the other side of Kingsport) then Gilbert will make some dry observation and the awkward silence will be almost forgotten. But why there should be one in the first place when there is nothing to hinder them. If _I_ had the freedom that Anne now has -but as I said, that was in another life.

I know I resolved not to tilt my hat at Gilbert Blythe but tonight I admit that resolve did waver. Anne left the room and in the next moment Gil plucked a few petals from my ugly orange posy and suggested I rub them over the scratch I have by my wrist (Miss Ada had left a needle in her latest cushion.) He might have done it himself, but then Phil _would_ come over and demand to know what he thought of the spot below her ear. It was nothing but a tiny mole -_and_ a perfect opportunity for her to display her delicate, ivory neck.

Gil only laughed and said whatever magic would take that away was beyond his homespun bag of tricks. Then Charlie chimed in with the helpful suggestion that a quick nick of a sharp knife would probably see to it -apparently Grandmother Sloane often made use of her husband's razor to shear off the carbuncles that sprouted on her chin. Phil gave up her seat next to Charlie entirely then and placed herself where Anne had been.

Goodness, I thought for a moment I heard Anne crying. But on further listening believe that one of Phil's diabolical cats is the likelier cause. She probably flung one over here in despair. I think the lack of sleep is causing her hair to kink -and it doesn't matter how she tilts _her_ hat nothing can disguise that.

**… … …**

_**Friday 3rd September, on the peculiar street of St John's, in my peculiar bedroom, trying to make sense of the peculiar thoughts in my ever peculiar head  
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Oh Ida,

I am such an ungrateful wretch. How many times have I wished that my Diana might have a little more fire in her thoughts, a little more scope in her imagination? Now I meet dazzling, clever girls everywhere and it isn't at all what I thought it would be.

I feel lonely.

I was so glad to be seeing Gilbert this evening. I think that the last time I truly laughed -I mean properly with my _whole_ self- was on the boat coming over here. Since then we've all been so busy settling in and will be even busier next week when we begin our first term proper.

I almost dread it. Last September I was scrubbing down my schoolhouse floors and dreaming about the carefree life of a scholar. Now I wish it was the Avonlea timetable I was trying to juggle, instead of a clash between Classics and Modern Languages.

I miss Home.

I miss it.

I miss it.

Miss the scarlet of maples and bonfires. Miss the green of the sea and the green of the sky where blue becomes gold. Miss the half clothed trees tearing at the winds till they too become ragged. Miss the salty chatter of clam bakes and the flickering silence as the first of the russets are cooked in the last of the embers. Of course one can find all these things in Kingsport but here the maples grow in lines and the clams and russets are bought by the pound not dug by your own hand. I thought that Gilbert would help me feel more at home here. Instead I feel as if he is leaving me behind.

It is not much of an exaggeration to say that half of Kingsport is already on nodding terms with Gilbert Blythe. _Everybody_ knows him. And as Phil-ish as it sounds I am not at all used to it. Back home it was me who made up clever teasers with him to put in the Daily Enterprise. It was me who received his secret winks when someone testified a little too honestly for a little too long during prayer meetings. It was me that built A.V.I.S. with him and made sure he got that fountain pen. It was me who goaded and guided him in our studies these past two years. And it was me that he lead to the apple tree.

I look at that list and I think what a lot of insignificant, prosey things they are. In Avonlea they meant something and in Gilbert's eyes my rare ambitions made me something of a moonstruck pioneer. But Josie, Diana, even Ruby are nothing like Priss and Phil. Learned, lively co-eds abound at Redmond. So far the only thing to distinguish me are my seven freckles and bright red hair.

I know it should make me happy that Gilbert has settled so well and made such an impression. He has no wealth or family name to recommend him, just a strong resolve and belief in himself. All I have is doubt. So many people told me I should change if I went to Redmond. It never once occurred to me that Gilbert might.

Oh, I have no right to even think this let alone waste a pot of ink in order to do write such nonsense. Last week I thought Gilbert Blythe was a sentimental pup, this week I am anxious I might lose him. What on earth is wrong with me?

**_One hour later._**

I have had a good cry now. I had been putting it off for days because I knew there would be no Diana to mop my face, no Marilla to bring me tea, no Rachel to find the moral in my tears, no Davy to bring me to laughter again. But I do have Priss and Phil and even Charlie. And I still have Gil.

I was remembering when he decided teach me how to handle a boat at sea. I had only ever rowed upon the Lake of Shining Waters before and Gilbert teased me ceaselessly that an Island girl should know how to sail on open water. On the designated day the weather turned a gale but of course headstrong, proud thing that I am I insisted we go out in it. Gilbert refused. 'If I put you out in that, he said, you won't know what to do and you'll learn to be afraid, you'll learn not to trust yourself.' At the time I was infuriated. 'Self satisfied, patronising pot holder!' I think I called him.

Then tonight he and Phil were in debate over the theories of some speaker at the Philomathic Society and I felt like an insignificant drop in a bottomless bucket. I had to leave the room before I drowned in my own ignorance -I just needed to be alone for a moment, you know how I am about that, dear Ida. And for reasons I still don't understand I sought out my new book of Shakespeare. The inside cover is inscribed with the good wishes of all my dear old Avonlea friends but the one that caught my eye was Gilbert's.

_It's time for you to sail, Anne Shirley  
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So, I guess I'll shall ready my little old boat and try and negotiate the current, but oh at this moment I wish it would carry me home.

**… … …**

**Thank you, as always for reading. It's quite a nice feeling, this making people laugh. To the lovely reviewers that I can't reply to personally let me thank you now for your encouragement, you made my day!**

**Next we shall discover a little more about Charlie and Gilbert's digs and all about Rush Week...**


	5. Chapter V

**Hell****o again****! Thank you for such lovely, detailed reviews, I wasn't sure if Phil's two notebooks would make sense so I am glad that you enjoyed them. This next installment refers to Rush Week, and being a New Zealander (no I didn't get the flag wrong, I just don't happen to live there) I have only a vague idea what this is. So if my idea concerning the challenge between the Sophs and the Freshers is embarrassingly wrong I can only apologise. The first time I read Anne of the Island ****this**** was what I pic****tured (as was the anagram game on the boat) and I have been wanting to find a way to write about it ever since. As to certain other things that are mentioned below, if you are wondering to yourself -Did she just go there? Let me tell you now, yes I did...**

**CHAPTER V -Letters from Home  
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**Thursday, September 9th; Acton House, Arbour Avenue**

So many A's in my life -may they continue as I mean to get every scholarship going.

The following is to account for yet more torn pages, though I might paste them back as I should be glad to keep a remembrance of such a fine day. One that will go down as a landmark moment. I foresee a public holiday being declared and a marble statue erected in our honour -hopefully in front of the Sophomore Common Rooms.

Yesterday for the first time in three years the Freshmen won the day!

I am still filled with amazement as I write that sentence. I didn't have the highest of hopes -some of these fellows have been too long conjugating verbs and too little out of doors. The majority set off on Wednesday morning with pale, sullen faces, predicting defeat. Not a one had attempted to nut out a strategy. Which is why I made use of this notebook again, spending most of Tuesday evening mapping out the streets of Kingsport from memory.

The challenge -no great surprise, it is the same every year- was to be a flag hunt. When each team found twenty the Freshers would race to the Rotunda and the Sophs to the Clock Tower. Advantage was already theirs, having lived in Kingsport longer they are more familiar with their surroundings and once they muddled out the clues were able to find the quickest route to the next location. But this was nothing to their territorial advantage. The only way for us to pass onto the green where the Rotunda is situated is to go over the Dawson Lawrence bridge. The tried and true Soph strategy being to keep a phalanx on the south end to stop us crossing it.

I admit I spent more time than was warranted trying to think of some way to get us across that bridge. I am rather keen to throw myself into any cause at the moment -anything to distract myself. But as far as I could see the only alternatives to the usual application of brute force and blind hope was to try and get our hands on a covered wagon or some disguises. Professors' robes might have done the job but that seemed a risk not worth the taking and as we set off that morning I was still undecided on the best tactic.

In the end all we needed were a handful of pennies. Thankfully most of the fellows here have pockets clinking with coin and as I mentioned we had enough brains between us to make out the clues. Not that any of them were a strain to solve -they were the sort of thing I invented with Anne as we crossed the Strait.

That's when it hit me, of course.

We received some filthy looks as we approached the bridge -the Sophs were loaded with flour and eggs waiting for us to try and get by them. When we continued walking along the north side of the river they just stood there like lummoxes before sending us howls of derision thinking we had made a mistake. But it proved to be theirs.

They had been so busy preparing for us to cross over the bridge it never occurred to them that we would pass under it.

Not half a mile from the bridge, where the Redmond campus gives way to parkland, is a small dock where one can hire boats. Fortunately for us business was slow that afternoon. There were six available and the wary look on the attendant's face when he was confronted with forty Freshman wearing the heated, eager looks of men who had victory in their grasp, quickly gave way as the money was thrust into his hand.

The only difficulty I had then was keeping the fellows from crowing as we passed under the bridge and docked on the other side. But we showed such stealth and self control as might have impressed Hiawatha himself. My only regret is that we never saw the look on those Sophs' faces when the Freshmen's bugle was sounded from the Rotunda.

That was more than made up for by the huzzahs that followed. There was such spirit in that moment, the whipped look most Freshers are disposed to wear disappeared in an instant. Then someone had the idea to hoist me atop their shoulders -something that hasn't happened to me since we beat those Carmody dogs at hockey back in '78. I've grown a mite in that time, however, and soon two, three, five other boys proceeded to carry me round the Rotunda whilst everyone else began shouting my name.

It was a terrific feeling, I only wished Father was there to see it. Of course it doesn't go anywhere near to making up what I owe him -though I might do the work of two at harvest it also means it costs him twice as much to replace me. Still it should give him a good chuckle when he hears that we Blythes have already made their mark in the hallowed annals of Redmond.

**… … …**

**Friday 10th September, Acton House, Arbour Avenue; Kingsport, Nova Scotia  
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**Time: **6:04 am

**Weather: **Too dark to discern, though I suspect this is partially due to heavy cloud cover -possibly nimbo-stratus (to be verified at a later hour)**  
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**Ate: **Nothing**  
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Good morning diary,

1) Have taken the unthinkable action of writing in the morning instead of the evening because once again I have been awoken by Blythe. He seemed to miss my pointed sighs, and now have little recourse but to proceed with the following.

2) Having resided at Acton House with Blythe for the best part of eleven days I am having to reassess the situation. To assist this process I will now construct a list of both pros and cons for continued co-habitation.

**List of Pros and Cons for Continued Co-Habitation**

_**Pros**_

Economically beneficial

Socially beneficial

Educationally beneficial

_**Contraindications**_

Push ups

Blythe gets up every morning and does push ups on the floor space between my bed and his. To make matters worse there does not seem to be a particular number he is aspiring to. If I knew I should have to wait out thirty or fifty that would be tolerable, however some mornings he achieves no more than forty, and others (like this morning) he has passed one hundred with no sign of tiring. This has brought about the next item on my list.

Nudity

I now know more about Blythe's anatomy than I should ever wish to know. He has an undignified preference to sleep in his undergarments rather than a nightshirt. I assume these would be changed every day but the practice itself is certainly unhygienic for both mind and body as well as being immodest. Surely he is aware that I can see him perspire -so much so that it pools in the hollow where his back curves up to his buttocks. Have also noted he has far less hair upon his person than myself which is gratifying as I am two years his junior. There appears to be only dark thatches under his arms and again from navel to groin. Suspect he is trying to bulk up his physique in order to encourage a more manly appearance.

Anne

Though it discomforts me utterly to position my lady love below Gilbert Blythe's naked, sweating body the man has driven me to it. This is what comes of writing in the morning instead of the evening when I may look back upon the day's events with a more detached eye. There is an unspoken rivalry for the sweet affections of my Princess of Perfection (note to self -insert this couplet into poem composed for forthcoming marriage proposal) and perhaps it is better to cut our ties now rather than inflict deeper wounds when Anne accepts me. Blythe has been my chum since childhood and clearly thinks the world of me. As well as allowing me first choice of the beds -though he would have me think he prefers to sleep under the window- on two occasions he has boxed the ears of some rogue who made sport of my appearance.

a) I have noted a curious divergence of meaning between P.E.I. and Nova Scotia because the word that keeps coming up wherever I go is 'goggles' yet I don't wear spectacles. If I did I might see what there was to laugh at -is there anything more comical than a pair of glasses? I hope that Anne will never find need of them.

b) Will endeavour to discourage Anne's excess reading as insurance against future eyestrain. (Discreetly)

3) Blythe has finally finished. One hundred and eighty one. You'd think he could have pushed himself to two hundred. He has departed with a selection of clothing -I assume clean underwear will be present- to the washroom and I shan't see him again until we meet up in the dining room for breakfast. His application to Mrs Causton to be allowed to prepare his own food has been refused -why he would want to forsake her porridge for the sake of a few pennies. Though he has never helped himself to my ham bone (I know because I weigh it every morning).

4) On balance he is rather a good fellow. For example I may now enjoy my morning motions in undisturbed comfort. Once I explained to him that I found it impossible to pass anything in a public facility he said he would be sure to absent himself from our room for the rest of the morning, only please could I leave the window open. What he expects me to do when the weather turns I do not know. I believe the grandiosity of Kingsport has gone to his head -yesterday evening he was under the impression that the faculty would be putting up a monument in his honour! I was too offended by such hubris to say anything but I didn't have to. My Anne said it all by laughing at him.

Respectfully, C. Sloane

**… … …**

**Saturday, September 11th; Acton House**

It cannot be unseen.

I suppose I should thank the fellow. Ever since I came to Redmond there is such beat going through me; an endless, sleepless tick-tock that gets stronger every day.

I know very well why. There is no other reason except my continual proximity to Anne. When boarding at White Sands I might see her one day a week, perhaps two, and only then for a few hours. Now I see her every day or I hear about her.

The illustrious Philippa Gordon struts her new chum about the best of Kingsport society with all the self regard of one who has discovered a rose amongst the thorns. The words 'She's from the Island!' remain unsaid. But one can hear them all the same; the plain astonishment that such a miraculous girl should hail from such a back water.

That's not strictly true. Anne's a Bluenose same as Phil. Though beware the fool who says so -and more often than not that fool is me. Last night at St John's we had been talking over my jaunt along the High Street in bonnet and apron as part of the Lambs initiation. Everyone thought it a great joke except Sloane, who considered such a spree beneath his dignity and nodded sagely at Anne's apparent consternation.

How do you expect me to explain such escapades when I write to Mrs Lynde? she said, her grey eyes laughing. Gilbert Blythe, how dare you bring my Island into disrepute! _Your_ Island? I said. You seem to like the company of Bluenoses so much I was sure you'd given us poor folk up entirely.

The look she gave me then -all green no grey; there was no pretence that time, Miss Shirley meant it. Yet I found myself saying something similar again today. It's not because I want her to glare at me or pull my cap over my eyes or elbow me in the ribs. I say it because I love to hear her proudly declare herself Island to the core!

This is not helping my pocket watch situation. At least the day offers some distraction. Nights are the worst. I seem to spend more time doing push ups next to my bed than sleeping in it. Yesterday morning I woke up so uncomfortable it almost demanded two hundred. Though that might change now. For I have seen such a sight as could fix the problem finally and comprehensively.

I had my bath this evening in readiness for Church tomorrow and then returned to our room. Charlie had his before I did and I assumed I had given the fellow plenty of time to get into his voluminous nightshirt before I entered, fully expecting to find him at his desk writing in his diary the way he does every evening. But what I saw, as I said, cannot be unseen.

Charlie Sloane in that old calico apron and not another stitch on him. I stood there, frozen, while he studied his reflection in the window. His backside like a bear cub but instead of eyes there were two smooth, bald patches where he must have had boils lanced and the hair never grew back. He motioned toward my closet -to fetch that sunbonnet?- when he sensed I was in the room and leaped into bed, pulling his quilt up to his neck.

I felt so bewildered and was so close to laughter that I grabbed the first thing that came to hand (this notebook) and vacated the room as quickly as I could. I'm still in the hallway now. We're the only boarders on the top floor so there's not much chance of my being caught in such a state of undress -though I'm sure that was what poor Charlie thought too.

I don't know what I shall say to the fellow tomorrow. Perhaps I will thank him. Whenever I have watch trouble instead of applying sweat to the floorboards all I have to do is picture a furry little face staring back at me.

**… … …**

**Sorry to be leaving you with such an image. Let's take a stroll in the park next and walk that off...  
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	6. Chapter VI

_**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. -everything is hers only this idea is mine**_

**CHAPTER VI -In the Park  
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**_Friday 30th September, Wallace Street_  
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**The Ochre Notebook**

Ugh! September is not even over and already I am bored. Bored. Bored.

Bored with my classes. I suppose the little rivalry with my honey of an Anne and her gorgeous Gilbert does add a certain spice though even they cannot best me in mathematics, either pure or applied.

Much as I detest Professor Shore I owe him a grudging thanks for I would not be half so determined to top the class every week if he hadn't been such an unrepentant chauvinist. When term began he insisted upon addressing the male side of the lecture hall and ignoring us females entirely. Not only were we unable to hear him -the old boy mumbles to such degrees you need to to see his lips move to make out what he's saying- we couldn't see what he was scribbling on the board. For the first two weeks the only view we had was of the vast black cloak draped over his vast back end!

Well I wasn't having that. So I found a nice obliging Soph to provide me with last year's course notes and proceeded to pester old 'Snore' at every turn. Questioning his logic, his methodology, his latest theorem until he realised he should have no peace from this 'Freshette' until he distributed himself equally amongst _all_ his students. It hasn't sharpened him up at all, however, the man is as predictable and uninspired as Charlie Sloane's wardrobe.

I am just as bored with my own attire. Almost anyone who can afford to imitates me now so that I am beginning to look dangerously ordinary. I caught two girls wearing the same dusty pink flowerpot this week. I suppose I should take some comfort at how ridiculous they looked -you need a certain kind of face to carry off that style of hat. Nevertheless I feel I don't want to wear mine now. But I can't give it to Anne because it will clash with her hair and I can't give it to Prissy because it will make her another foot taller. Besides then _I_ will be a hat short. I shall have to find a _new_ milliner and what a bore that will be.

I am bored with Alec and Alonzo -well Alec at least. His last letter was the last word in tedious. Just because I happened to enclose a post script meant for Alonzo in a letter meant for him! I wrote the _major_ portion for his entertainment, is it my fault he doesn't share my penchant for bad Shakespeare? The Juliet in the production I attended last Friday must have been at least _thirty!_ Alec needn't have a B.A. in Elizabethan tragedy to appreciate that. But he would sulk.

I started to think of myself as Mrs Alonzo Hill just to spite him and then_ I _began sulking. I had been so focussed on how atrocious the name Alonzo is I hadn't given a single thought to his surname -_Hill!_ If I married him I be would known as _Phil Hill! _

You'd think I would be looking forward to the boating party tomorrow. My dear, sweet victims have planned a carousing jaunt on the river -Gilbert has started quite the craze for them now. But I am bored by the sheer obligingness of every boy who looks my way. Well not _every_ boy. Sometimes I think Queen Anne ignores all Mr Blythe's smouldering looks not to punish him but to punish me!

Oh I think of Anne and I can see her huge grey eyes darken in judgment. Or is it that she simply has a way of making my complaints seem shallow and petty -for why else do I turn to my Rose Notebook whenever I think of her?

Double ugh. I would much rather convert her to my bad ol' ways than have to live up to such unremitting goodness. I suppose that is why I insist Anne declares her devotion to me ten times a day. I simply cannot believe she could like me. Though I am just the tiniest bit glad she cannot wear pink for I believe that hat would be a sensation on her and Anne Shirley is already too delicious by far.

**The Rose Notebook**

I am both appalled and excited to note that the sensation flowing through me right now may be closely akin to _love._ Certainly it's too early to tell but it fulfills all the criteria. For I am always thinking about this person, always wanting to see this person, can even bear to be outshone by this person -so long as it is confined to only _one_ class and only _one_ mannie.

I think I might _love_ Anne.

I am half disappointed by the idea. Firstly because I hoped my first inkling of love might pertain to either Alec or Alonzo and secondly because it makes one terribly vulnerable and myopic. Yet I am also ridiculously gratified because if nothing else Anne deserves love. And I really want to deserve Anne. I've never felt this way about a chum before, yet when I think about whether I should go out with my boys on Saturday or pop across to St John's I know to my Byrney bones where I shall end up. Of course Prissy is a first rate dear but nothing compares to the infinite mix of whimsy and ambition that is Anne. Every day is new with her, one never knows exactly what girl she will be, but I long to be friends with all of them. Besides St John's always has better cake.

**… … …**

**Friday 30th September; St John's street, Kingsport  
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**Priss Report #211**

Was it only three weeks ago that I hoped we should have gentleman callers at every opportunity? Tonight I feel ripe for conversion and the road to Rome beckons -or at least the road to a convent. The idea of being cloistered away from the world once bewildered me but now I see it has its merits.

All I wanted was to lounge about in my kimomo, plaster _Otto of Roses _on my face_,_ and catch up on the latest installment of 'The Awakening of Elaine' in Ladies Home Journal. But the doorbell at 38 St John's would ring and Anne and I would have to answer it. Ada and Hannah command sole use of Peg on Fridays which is when they hold their Whist drives in the dining room and why we 'young things' may have use of the parlour. By eight o'clock Bernard, Sebastian, Duncan, Neville and Charlie had wedged themselves around a scarlet cheeked Anne. Gilbert and I preferred to perch upon the stairs. We escaped Anne's admirers but there was no escaping those cushions -Miss Ada has taken to piling them up the staircase! We might have been comfortable had we actually sat upon one but after a certain Sloane murdered the latest creation we didn't dare. Our discomfort was only increased with Anne appearing in the hallway every quarter hour entreating us to join them. And my insistence that Gilbert stay exactly where he was.

Gilbert suggested a walk and soon he and I were strolling down the dim path of St John's street. Just keep your gloves on, he joked, then if some fussing Matron cares to enquire about our being out together after dark we can pretend to be engaged.

I don't ever plan to marry, I said suddenly -though this was just as much news to me as it was to Gilbert.

Mr Rawley's engagement to Charlotte Dixon is official. I received a clipping of their announcement in the 'Enterprise' today. Though the news hurt me cruelly my sister meant to be kind and let me know I must give up the foolish dream that Nate would ever choose me over Lottie -and the parcel of arable land that came with her.

I knew this would happen, of course. My dream is merely one of many burdens that weigh upon Nate. He has his widowed mother and four sisters to consider. All I have to think about are the sixty-odd years I must endure without him. The look on Gilbert's face as I spoke, for all he might be the freshly crowned captain of the football team, the president of the freshman year _and_ the apple of every Freshette's eye, this evening he looked as downcast as I was.

If only I could have been cruel and told him to give up on Anne -at least for now. Whenever Gil is around her he has such a look as if he is about speak. While Anne always seems about to laugh at him -or frown. Yet there I was assuring Gilbert Blythe that the gaggle in our parlour hadn't been invited but had simply turned up on our doorstep. Anne could hardly refuse them, not after Charlie marched himself inside without regard for either hostess or cushions. Naturally, Gil resolved to make light of it all.

Why shouldn't she, he said, after all she seems to prefer the company of Bluenoses now.

I wish you would cease with that line, I said, if only you knew how it hurt her.

Hurt her? he said.

Anne's been horribly homesick, I told him.

I shouldn't have I know -but on observing the look on Gil's face I felt I had done the right thing for he seemed amazed at the idea. I wonder how he could be so in love with her and not notice.

You tease her about preferring Bluenoses, I continued, yet you forget her parents were born here. Anne must have endured such misery before she came to the Island. You can't suppose she would choose a life in P.E.I. over one here in the arms of her mother and father?

He went very quiet and I felt wretched. Of course all my venom was for Nate but Gilbert wasn't to know that. He never tried to excuse his behaviour however which is what anyone else would have done. He went silent, almost lost in thought, we had walked by our house twice before he remembered himself and escorted me up to my door.

I want to thank you, Priscilla Grant, he said. This evening meant a lot to me.

If he had said such a thing to me yesterday I should have written something very different here tonight. An account of my falling in love with Gilbert Blythe and a desire to believe he was falling in love with me. But now there is no chance for me and Nate and my heart is free to love again I know that I don't want anyone else.

I never did and I never shall.

**... ... ...**

**_Saturday October 1st, sitting upon a downy cloud as it floats about by little room in 38 St Johns._**

Darling Ida,

There is such a sunset tonight, a pale gold of realised hopes and promises kept. The pines are dark against it and stand like guardians upright and unfailing; the willows hang low, their slender branches sway as if to polish the sky until it glows. Even your pages are yellow, Ida, my entire room is doused in tints of sunlight. The ends of my hair seem lit from within and so is my heart.

I am so very happy to be here sitting in the deep window ledge of my little room. I thought I would fill this space with books but I am glad that I heeded Marilla's warning about the condensation on the glass warping the pages if I shelved them here. And so they would, it is only the first day of October and already I can see a little mist creep about the corners of the window frame.

I wonder if I shall have to resort to piling rags at the bottom of the sill as I had to at the asylum -the windows used to run with water where our collective breaths would hit the cold glass, and I would watch Katie Maurice cry and whisper all the sweet and tender things I longed to hear said to me.

This golden evening is like a balm to all that hurt. I am filled with such a rare, contented peace I could sew a mile of perfect 3/16th inch stitches and never once fall into 4 or 5/ 16ths. I knew I should have gone out today. If I hadn't I would be unpicking my blouse instead of cosying up with you, dear Ida. And more than that I might never have seen Patty's Place.

What is Patty's Place you ask? Allow me to describe every detail to you. I can do it easily for it is etched upon my heart as much as Green Gables or Echo Lodge ever were. I discovered it today upon a walk I took with Priss and Gilbert, Phil and Charlie. It was Gil's idea to take a stroll along Spofford Avenue, past the homes of Kingsport's well-to-do. I never imagined him caring one jot for those monuments to style over substance. The two of us used to laugh at the Pye's delusions of grandeur. 'The Palisades' their house is called, as though it was some ancient fortress -though what they hope to defend themselves against when the most barbed, wounding tongues dwell _inside_ it. Mrs Pye famously prides herself on the swan shaped topiary bushes that embellish her borders; whenever Gil and I wrote in the Daily Enterprise about some event at the Pyes we only had to say 'Goose Hoose' and all Avonlea knew exactly who we were referring to.

This afternoon I had the feeling that Gil would build such a house for me if he could and keep me safe inside its perfect walls forever. He told me if he had his way he would shut out everything in my life but pleasure and happiness. I admit if anyone else had said this to me I should have wrapped my arms about them and kissed their sweet, sentimental cheeks. Of course I wouldn't do that to Gilbert -not that I want to- but I do attribute him with far more sense than to say such a thing. How can one know what matters to them, know joy or love or goodness if one has nothing to compare it with?

Which brings me again to Patty's Place which stood like a cluster of wild strawberries amidst a sleek line of hothouse roses. Phil said it wasn't built at all but seemed to grow out of the soil, and gleefully recounted how the millionaires on Spofford Avenue have offered to buy it hundreds of times but the owners flatly refuse. I confess I don't know what surprised me more, the darling little house or the fact that Phil adores it -I have never seen her express such candid, barefaced joy.

She is such mix of people. No wonder she can never decide on what hat to wear let alone which _mannie_ to marry. And no wonder she is a whizz at mathematics, the subject must be something of a relief to her. For there are no variables in a number, no points of view to consult, no angles to see it from. The answer is either right or it isn't. I suppose that's why I struggle; for I love the mystery of life, its bends, its contradictions. The answer in front of me is never so exciting as an unknown possibility.

Perhaps I wouldn't have loved Patty's Place half so much if it lived with a row of similar houses. But the way it stood there among those charmless, faultless mansions, determined to be its own tumbling, mossy self. It filled my heart with a special kind of gladness to discover such a treasure -like the golden beams that light upon me now.

Except that isn't quite truthful, though it sounds poetic I admit I am struggling to see now. The night has claimed her right to the sky and I must fetch my lamp. But I know that once I do this little lustrous world I dwell in must also depart and I am not ready to leave it yet.

Priss has come in and scolded me for ruining my eyes -and added I will be quite unfit to make a bride for Charlie Sloane if I carry on in such a fashion. Apparently he had been quizzing Priss as they walked together this afternoon about the extent of my reading habits. He is afraid I shall need spectacles. Is their no end to the conceit of Sloanes! I have a mind to buy a pair just to spite him.

They are lighting the lamps in the street below me, I must leave you, Ida, though I haven't yet described one brick of Patty's place. Somehow I know it doesn't matter, all that matters is that such a place exists. For the first time since arriving here I feel I could belong in Kingsport after all. At least for a little while...

**… … …**

**Thank you for reading and all your kind words. Next we are off to the first of many proposals... does anyone know how many time Anne Shirley was proposed to?**


	7. Chapter VII

_**Hello again! I realise I went ahead of myself and thought that I would be writing of Anne's first proposal, but that doesn't happen until chapter 8. Funnily enough the chapter we have instead is the one where L.M.M. writes 'that no account of that night has been preserved' -I think this quote shaped the idea for a diary story in the first place. So here, dear reader, is that long lost account...**_

_**CHAPTER VII -Home Again  
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_**Thursday December 23rd; Orchard Slope, Avonlea**_

Dear Journalette,

Anne is home! When she left in September I thought I should never survive until Christmas I missed her _so_ much. Of course Fred has been a dear but some things can only be shared with one's bosom friend -I can't very well talk about Fred _to_ Fred, can I? Let alone a Gillis or a Pye. Those girls can think of nothing but Ruby's New Year's party. I just know every Avonlea girl is determined to outshine a certain redheaded Freshette. They can try all they like Anne will make them look like last year's hat.

She looked so divine at the station, my heart burst with pride when I saw her. She has shortened her hair a little so that the most adorable little curls kiss upon her brow. There was a moment when I thought someone else was about to kiss that brow -but Gil was only brushing something off the shoulder of her coat. Didn't Anne's face go red as he did it. They make such an adorable couple. I hope Gil agrees to be Fred's best man at our wedding. It will be a summer wedding so he can wear his handsome cream blazer with a sky blue tie I think, and Anne can wear her darling duck-egg organza. Of course there's still more than two years until then. Perhaps modes will have changed, but oh it's nice to dream!

I want Fred to wear brown. Whether it should be plain or a fine check I haven't yet decided. But something in a toasty, tree trunky colour -Fred always looks a little less red when he wears brown. I am still in two minds about my dress. When I saw Charlotte Gillis' wedding gown I decided then and there that I should definitely have a six foot train. But then Ruby told me what a trial it was to be trailing behind her sister keeping the satin straight and clean. Apparently she had to hold it up while Charlotte used the water closet! I could _never_ do that to Anne. So then I decided I would have a fabulous outsized hat until I realised it would make me taller than Fred which wouldn't do at all. Now I am all for a misty white veil but they are fearfully expensive and I wouldn't want the Wrights thinking me extravigant.

Anne says I should have puffed sleeves! So puffy as to make Fred's head look like a pin. As if I would, no one but the most old fashioned spinsters wear puffed sleeves now. Now we are all in a craze for bustles. Oh I love to wear a bustle because it makes my waist look so tiny. But Anne doesn't care a stitch for them. She says her new chum, Phil (Phil is actually a girl but every time I hear her name I think of a boy) has already given up in despair of converting Anne to bustles -and _she_ is even more of a clotheshorse than_ I _am. Perhaps then this 'Phil' is also as plump as I am because Anne's bitty waist definitely does not need disguising. She complained she's lost five pounds since moving to Kingsport. Marilla and Rachel are already plotting on how to fatten her up again.

She looked so small and sweet as we snuggled up together in the Spare Room, we felt like young girls again. I even braided her hair down her back. Anne asked me to tell her truly if it looked any more auburn than it did in September. Journalette, it didn't. But I told her it was hard to tell by candlelight. Then I asked if she could see anything different about me. Did it _show_ I wondered. Ruby swore it did but I don't know for certain because Mama has had the worst head cold and is not as eagle eyed as she generally is.

Well Anne took one look at my big blushing face and said of course it shows, Diana darling, half your face is raw from Fred's big bristly jaw. Oooh I went even redder then and begged her to tell me she was only teasing. It wasn't until a good while later when Anne was describing the regal countinance of her English professor that it occurred to me to ask exactly how she knew about whisker rash.

Well didn't Miss Anne go quiet all of a sudden. Then finally she said she didn't know, not directly, but had heard enough about it. Then I said would she like to know even _more_ about it. I told her how mouths were the least of it. That the fine skin beneath your earlobes tingled blissfully when someone kissed you there, and how the little hollow between your collar bones just seemed made for a boy's lips. It was strange then because even though it was dark I knew that both of us were touching those places. Of course I was thinking of my Fred, but who was Anne thinking of? I'd never ask her. She'd shut up tighter than a bad clam if I mentioned Gilbert Blythe -or any man who isn't from some novel. So I said oh imagine _Mr_ _Knightley_ kissing your ear lobe! And she said no, _Mr_ _Darcy!_ and then we squealed under the quilt clutching at our pillows. But I know now a pillow is nothing like a real man. And neither is a book. But that's just something Anne will have to find out for herself.

**… … …**

_**Wednesday 29th December; Mount Holly, Bolingbroke**_

**The Rose Notebook**

Alec Granger

_Looks:_

Thick, black curly hair

Dreamy aqua coloured eyes and long black lashes

Smooth cheeked complexion except for the sweetest bits of fluff by his ears that he calls sideburns

Full pink lips which thrill me to my fingertips

Tall, broad shouldered -basically the full Adonis

_Attributes:_

Only son of Malcolm Granger of Granger Dunleavy Co.

Bachelor of Arts in Mathematics and Philosophy

Plays piano, harp, flute, croquet, archery and also paints -after Millet

Essays published in _Kingsport Chronicles_ and _Patton's World of Travel_

Adores Victor Hugo, Lord Byron, Schubert, Chopin and the Barbizon School

Loves his sister, Sissie, his labrador, Jupiter, raspberries and fresh cream, and me!

_Loveliest thing he's ever said to me:_

"Each time you happen to me all over again." *

Alonzo Hill

_Looks:_

Light brown hair

Dark brown eyes and short thick lashes

Golden skin and golden whiskers about his upper lip and chin

Sweet, smiling mouth with a buttery laugh that make his eyes crinkle and my heart go whomp

A nose that would cause Michaelangelo to fetch his chisel

Medium height, carries himself very confidently

_Attributes:_

Eldest of five sons, and heir to the Beauclaire estate

Bachelor of Arts; Modern Languages and Literature

True tenor, also plays piano, viola, polo (captain), football, hockey (captain) cross country skiing, and hunts

Written and produced three plays (for private audience)

Adores Shakespeare, Marlowe, Gilbert and Sullivan, Keats, and Bach

Loves his brothers, his appaloosa, Bonnie, his quarter-horse, Othello, maple syrup on everything, and me!

_Loveliest thing he's ever said to me:_

"You should be kissed often by someone who knows how." *

**The Ochre Notebook**

Alec

He is prettier than I am!

Whenever I see him play the harp I want to laugh

His paintings are rather derivative and his hands often smell like turpentine

I've only pretended to read his essays because they looked horridly boring -one of them was about carp fishing in Vancouver.

I like Jupiter more than I like Sissie

All he ever wants are raspberries -which is unimaginative in raspberry season and pretentious for the other fifty weeks of the year

_Silliest thing he's ever said to me:_

"You are my one and only thought." *

Alonzo

He will dilute my good looks should we have a family, and I would much prefer pretty children -they're so much easier to love!

He sings well enough but he is _always_ singing, and his plays were all hilarious even though two were supposedly tragedies

He's often bruised or nursing some injury. He'll probably make me a widow far too early. I shall be stuck wearing black which drains my complexion, and, going by the size of his own family, burdened with a mountain of sons -and plain sons at that.

He sometimes smells of horse liniment and there are always sticky crumbs of sugar in his pockets

_Silliest thing he's ever said to me:_

"If you live to be a hundred I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so that I never have to live without you." *

Oh this is hopeless, I shall never decide. And I shall never forgive Anne for not coming to Bolingbroke. If she had come to Mount Holly for Christmas instead of hokey ol' Green Gables she would have known which of them to choose. Those grey eyes of hers can peer into a person's soul and see one's truth in an instant whereas I am left to draw up ridiculous lists like a Sloane. Yes I admit it, Charlie Sloane gave me the idea. I was never going to mention the circumstances as to exactly how this came about but I think that I shall now -I'm in the mood for playing the martyr.

I last saw Charlie at Gil's game against Temperley College. Well you _couldn't_ miss him really, he was wearing the most ludicrous get up -all thanks to yours truly. Because the day I found out Gil made captain of the Reds, the day we all walked to Patty's Place and I ended up on Charlie's arm (which again was really Anne's fault because she had the captain all to herself!) I decided to take my revenge on ol' Goggles by playing a tiny prank.

I told him that Anne adored the tradition of wearing Redmond colours but wondered why no one ever wore matching trousers. Well Mother Sloane must have stitched up a storm because six weeks later there was Charlie on the number two field in a fully knitted red and white striped suit. He looked like a bug eyed candy cane, and had the audacity to march over to _me_ and demand to know why I was so late to the game. I told him I couldn't decide what to wear of course. The weather was so bleak it really demanded my cashmere cloak but the fuchsia colour clashes horribly with my football sweater.

In the end I decided to brave the cold without it but my lips must have been blue because the next thing I knew Charlie Sloane was peeling off his repellent ensemble and pushing it into my arms. Of course he wore the usual brown underneath because, he told me, the wool was too itchy against his bare skin. Well the joke was on me then, I was _so_ frozen I had those long-johns on under my skirts before you could say social suicide.

After the game Charlie _insisted_ on walking me to Wallace street in order to have his suit back (as if I planned to _keep_ it!) and that is how I came to hear all about his penchant for making lists. I'm sure they make for thrilling reading. Yet am I not the greater fool for taking his advice? It hasn't made the least bit of difference. I still don't know whether I should attend the Hill's party on New Years Eve or the Granger's. Let alone whom I shall marry. Somehow I feel it's all Anne's fault! Well I absolutely refuse to blame myself. Haven't I suffered enough!

**… … …**

_**Thursday 30th December, White Lily Lodge, Avonlea**_

The Life and Times of Miss Ruby Rose Gillis, Chapter 1,877

Oh I wish I could shake this pesky cold, the tickle in my throat is making me fractious. I have been sucking on lemon drops but I shall have to quit that by tomorrow night -imagine being caught under the mistletoe smelling like you just ate a bar of soap. Not that any fellow I could name would mind one shred if I did. They are all so crazy over me. I think Charlotte misses all the attention. Well she made her choice and now she must wake up to it every morning. Imagine having to sleep next to Milty Stilton for the rest of your life! I wonder if I should keep a supply a peppermints by me when I marry in case of sour breath?

Peppermints! That's what I'll do, I'll fill a punch bowl with peppermints. Not those nasty chalky things from Lawsons, Charlie Sloane sometimes has the most awful white crust at the corners of his mouth. What agony having to kiss that! Perhaps I won't hang mistletoe, after all. It was really Josie's idea. Poor girl, she practically has to corner a man. If only she knew what a trial it was to be always having boys at your elbow. They just _never_ let me be!

I hope those fellows realise I shall be wanting to catch up with my chums as well. I want to introduce Anne to Mr Dander. He is an utter dish with the dreamiest moustache. Don't I wish I had a teacher like that instead of moony Mr Phillips. Those Spencervale girls don't know how lucky they are -I would be asking for _extra_ lessons! I do hope my throat clears, I sound like some screechy ol' Blewett. Perhaps just the tiniest drop of red current wine would do the trick. Now that is an idea, I feel so rattled lately -Myra says it _must_ be love if I can't even sew a straight stitch anymore. I still haven't trimmed the cuffs of my new dress satisfactorily, I've ruined a whole yard of silk ribbon as it is.

No matter, as if anyone will be looking at the cuffs of my dress. I suppose some girls must rely on pretty feathers, I like them myself. But I never heard one beau say that he loved me for my stylish hat, or my pearl button gloves, or my french lace shirtwaist. It's always my eyes or my hair or my figure -Rob Wright would say it's my smile but I know that he_ really_ means the ruby red lips which make that smile. Oh, he's too awful!

I can't wait to see what Anne's wearing, Diana tells me she has trimmed a little fringe of curls about her face. If that's so you can just bet Josie Pye will do the same. Someone should warn her against it, she already has such a square shaped head, a style like that will likely make it worse. Well, whatever the fashion _I_ am going to keep my hair long, straight and golden the way all the boys like it. Gilbert Blythe used to call me Rapunzel while he only called Anne _carrots_ and Diana _crow_. He always did have a soft spot for me. But I can't be waiting around for Gilbert to make a doctor of himself -besides everyone knows he's just sure to marry Anne.

He's practically the only fellow she mentions in her letters. Fancy paying all that money for Redmond only to end up marrying a boy from your own hometown! When I think what it must be like surrounded by all those dashing young men. It's as well I never wanted to go, I doubt any of them would give me a minute to study. Gilbert and Anne seem to be taking it all far too seriously. Well and I am sure the two of them will make a quaint old pair, chatting by the fireside about some ol' book by some ol' nobody. Who was it Gil said he was reading at the moment? Was it John Stuart Mill? Sounds like a fisherman to me!

Don't I sound cross. It's this awful sore throat, it is vexing to come down so ill on the eve of my party. At least it hasn't affected my colouring, I never have to pinch my cheeks anymore. I look so bonny and bright eyed Mr Dander is just bound to propose to me on the spot! I suppose I shouldn't say yes, not if he hasn't asked Father. Besides I hardly know the first thing about him. Gertie says he has a fiancee on the mainland, that's why we haven't seen him since school broke for the holidays. Well that's just the sort of thing you'd expect from a Pye. I have a mind to forgo the mistletoe after all then we'll see who gets kissed the most!

**... ... ...**

* Asterisked quotes are by Edith Wharton, Margaret Mitchell, Arthur Conan Doyle and A.A. Milne respectively

**Ok, now we have the proposal -yes to Jane, Dianastorm, great idea! But who else should speak? Would anyone like to know what happened at that party?**


	8. Chapter VIII

**Thank you for all your messages, and especial thanks for your words about Ruby -I am juggling so many voices now I fully expect to muck it up at every turn. Speaking of which I have given Jane a go (I don't know whether to curse or to thank you Dianastorm) and would love to know how she comes across. Though I suppose the best thing you could say is that you forgot everything she said. But before Jane here is a bit of a ramble from a tipsy Gilbert Blythe...**

**CHAPTER VIII -Anne's First Proposal  
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_** January 1st 1884; Allwinds, the early hours...  
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I should be in bed but I don't want to be, even though I've had one mug of cider too many and feel ready to fall into a long empty sleep. I don't want to know that emptiness yet, I don't want to wake to the promise I made to a New Year. Right now I just want to write and think and be in Anne.

I miss Anne. And I mean I really miss her. I attempted to kiss her tonight. The countdown to midnight had finished, the last strains of Auld Lang Syne were being sung and I strode through the Gillis' crowded parlour and went in for a kiss. Only to get a mouthful of hair. She must rinse it with rosemary, I can still smell it now, a mix of lemon, mint, pine and something else, something only red hair can lend to it. I wasn't expecting such warmth and softness -though I was expecting her cheek. When I touch my lips now they feel separate to the rest of my face, not numb exactly but different.

She drew away from me immediately but I am used to that now. Whenever I am near her sooner or later Anne will look at me with eyes that say: Don't do that, Gilbert. Don't say that.

I remember watching her on the boat as we sailed back across the Strait, the way she laughed and joked so easily with Priss, sometimes even Charlie. Then I would lumber over like a stag in rut only to see her stiffen, lower her eyes and pretend to be deep in conversation about the merits of Lawson's peppermints over Blair's.

But tonight... Oh sweet world, I couldn't stay away. She looked so beautiful. Anne is not always beautiful. Sometimes her hair hangs like a rusted roof, her eyes cloud over like a storm in summer and she juts out her chin till it seems even sharper than her tongue. And I think to myself, Blythe, why are you so set on her, when so many other girls -pretty, agreeable girls- would gladly take her place by your side?

Then Anne'll say something or have this look and within that is something only I understand. And I come over all hot and prickly and words tumble out, words that ignite this fierce spirit that lives in her. And it goes right through me, I feel this deep relief the way I do when push-ups aren't enough and there's only one thing that helps. And I try, I try so hard not to think of Anne when that happens. I don't want to, I don't want to sully Anne in any way. I just want more than a mouthful of her hair. I want to be near her and not feel her move away. I miss her.

I'm no better than those other bees buzzing about the flower. I want to wave them all away but I have no right. After my botched attempt at a kiss I slunk back to the table on the pretense of wanting some punch. Of course Anne already had three or four tumblers brought to her by fellows just as nervous and hopeful and guarded as I am. She treated them just the same; the same uneasy laughter, the same pink face, the same distracted air of someone who is looking to escape. And I understood then. That's how she feels about me. Don't do that, Gilbert, her grey eyes warn me, Don't say that.

So I won't. God in Heaven give me strength but I won't. Not only because it makes her unhappy but because I miss her. Miss the way we used to be. Anne is the best friend I have. When I say best I don't mean she is the most goodhearted or the most adventurous or the most selfless -though now I think of it she is all those things. But she also brings out the best in me and understands me best. I thought that trying to get more from her, trying to get her to look at me the way she did that day last summer mattered more to me than her friendship. But it doesn't. I know that now. I would rather 1000 days with my Anne of old, my goading, teasing, difficult Anne than watch her twist and wince in my company for another minute.

I won't give her any reason to lump me together with those other fellows. I can't. I have too much to lose. And so much to forget. The way she tilts her head to one side when she wants to say something wicked, the way she runs her finger over her bottom lip when she's thinking, the way she lies back in the grass and cradles her head and nuzzles the soft underside of her arm. The way she looked tonight in that emerald fabric, the way the firelight slid over her body like a caress, the way the smallest hint of shadow bloomed from the deep neck of her dress, the way her long, loose hair smelled of rosemary. But rosemary is for remembrance.

**… … …**

**1st Jan. The Palisades, Avonlea**

Well well! So there was no big announcement tonight after all. When I saw Anne Shirley in that green get up I was certain she must have _something_ to crow about. Why else go to the expense of draping herself in swathes of satin? But what did she mean by wearing her hair long? She must have thought the colour suited all that red though it did _nothing_ for her complexion. I thought she looked quite pasty even if no one else would admit to it. And such a _plunging_ neckline! Not that she has much to display. I should know because _I_ have curves where it counts.

Gilbert didn't seem impressed. He barely went near Anne all night. And there we all were thinking they were just _sure_ to be engaged. Jane Andrews certainly expected it. She'd been trying to impress upon Diana Barry how much more convenient it would be for us Avonlea folk if she and Anne had a double ceremony. Well I just had to laugh. Diana's little wedding will be the highlight of her little life, as if she would share her _one_ moment of glory with Anne, even if Anne is her _bosom _friend. And now we all know what little bosom there is!

Of course Jane wouldn't have that. She said that Diana _adored_ the idea, the only snag being that there was no one Anne wanted to marry. But I think it much more likely that there is no one who would marry Anne. How else to account for it? She's been at Redmond _four_ months and there hasn't been the least whiff of a courtship. Even Gilbert Blythe has cooled, when he once made himself ridiculous for her.

He was so severe and aloof at the party, probably because he's used to us fawning all over him. Well he's not the only one to move on. Now we are all _mad_ for Mr Dander. Gertie swears he has a fiancee in N.B. Well if that's so then she should get herself to the Island smartly or risk losing him forever, because there is a man who _truly_ appreciates a low cut dress.

Jane's own collar nearly touched her ears. She's worn that same five tier dress to _four_ parties in a row. Not because the Andrews are short of a penny, but because she explained -without a _hint_ of irony- it's her _party_ dress. It's a pity she hasn't caught herself a Sloane because they would be perfect together. Naturally Charlie was shadowing Anne _all_ night, as were Tommy _and_ Ralph _and_ Sam. I said to Jane that all Anne needed was a good long stick and she would look like a goose-girl. Didn't Jane get all high and mighty then, just because I didn't see her dimwit brother, Billy, snuffling behind Tommy's shoulder._ Billy's no goose,_ Jane snipped at me,_ he_ _happens to be very fond of Anne._

Well I couldn't help myself. I said, _Laws, Jane, what do you think to a match between Billy and Anne?_ Jane admitted to me then that the thought had crossed her brother's mind but that she thought perhaps they weren't the best fit.

Then I just happened to suggest that maybe that's what Anne's been looking for all long. _Stands to reason,_ I told her, _if she hasn't_ _taken up with some college sort perhaps it's because what she really wants is a hardworking, farm boy_ -I could tell Jane was about to call me out for mocking her before I added- _from a 'respectable' family._

Well _that_ did the trick. I saw plain as plain Jane liked the idea and went away to talk to her brother. Didn't I pray she might persuade him to speak before everyone. But that was too much to hope for. Billy Andrews wouldn't say shoo to a fly let alone get down on one knee in a crowd and propose. But he _will,_ you can be sure of that. Oh, I would _kill_ to see the look on Anne Shirley's face when the dashing hero on a pure white steed she always gabs on about turns out to be dumpy Billy Andrews on his old grey nag!

**… … …**

_**Date: 2nd January, 1884 ~ Brown Gate Farm, Newbridge Road, Avonlea, Prince Edward Island  
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_**Volume Eight**_

_**Weather ~ Strong prevailing winds from the north, alternating sleet and rain**_

_**Today's Proverb: 16:18 ~ Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.**_

Diary,

Today's events do not sit well on my conscience. I told an untruth to Anne and said I could not return with her to Green Gables after Service. She is certain to notice this falsehood for none of us ever have anything to do on a Sunday. But she had the good grace to let me go without question and for that I am thankful at least.

I suspect Anne feels she spoke hastily last night. She has many redeeming qualities it is only a shame her impulsive nature over-shadows most them. Well I will not be renewing Billy's addresses to her. There would be no point as he has already taken the grey mare to the Blewett's. He wanted to take the cart because the weather is particularly bleak, but the canvas awning is in need of repair and Mother and Papa have taken the buggy to Grafton.

Billy and I are of a mind that it will be better to have his engagement settled before their return. Mother always makes him so nervous so that my brother often decides it would be safer not to act at all. If she should discover that Anne refused him before he has secured Nettie Blewett I am afraid she will take it into her head to grab him by the ear and drag him to Green Gables and make Anne say yes. I wonder if that is why Billy's ears got to be so very big.

I suppose it might be something if Anne could be made to change her mind. After all she changed her mind about Mrs Lynde and Gilbert Blythe and Redmond. But I own I am too upset to have Anne as a sister now. I told a falsehood. On a Sunday. That is how upset I am.

I really don't see how Anne could do any better. When all's said and done Gilbert Blythe is still a farmer's son for all he might aspire to be a doctor -Billy could have been a doctor if he set his mind to it. But then perhaps Diana is right and Anne doesn't want to marry anyone who isn't in a novel. Mother says Anne believes she is too good for Avonlea boys which is scandalous pride for an orphan -though she does concede Marilla Cuthbert may have had undue influence.

In my own case however she is of the view that perhaps the pool of prospective husbands on the Island has grown too small and has stipulated that if I have not managed to secure a promise by next summer I am to give up my school and look further afield. I like the idea of that I must say. Perhaps if Anne has no luck at Redmond I can persuade her to accompany me. I expect I shall need about half a year to forgive her. Perhaps four months -she is a dear friend, after all.

**… … …**

**Sunday 2nd January, 1884; on a snowy, blowy, hunker-down day -and as it is for the weather so it is for my heart  
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Oh Ida,

I have no intention of ever, _ever _relaying the events of last night. Not only because I am humiliated to the core but also because I find the whole episode so absurd I wouldn't have the least idea how to describe it to you.

What a way to start the New Year! Such sweet, pure promise bludgeoned so rudely -and by _Jane_ of all people. I know I have offended her though I doubt it occurs to her she has done the same to me. Not that I _am_ offended, not really, the whole thing is so farcical I should be laughing. I have laughed. Only now I feel saddened somehow as I did when I discovered what a diamond really looked like. Like a little dream has died, one that was more real to me than any truth or fact and I begin to wish that the world couldn't sometimes be different.

You see I knew I shouldn't make sense. I have tried being different and I didn't like it all. There was my new style of hair and of course the astonishing gown Phil sent me for Christmas. It is so unlike anything we wear on the Island, a duchesse silk the colour of a Christmas tree with a daring scooped neckline. I just knew Phil sent it to me as a punishment -as if to say, try and find somewhere to wear _this_ in your 'hokey ol' Avonlea'.

Phil was right. The dress was all wrong for my little world. Diana, however, had other ideas, and insisted I wear it to Ruby's party. As I descended the stairs on New Years Eve both Marilla and Rachel came at me with shawls. But the Gillis' have a habit of keeping their fires roaring and I knew I should sweat dark circles in that satin if I tried to cover up, so Diana suggested I wear my hair loose over my shoulders. It did look very becoming against the sheeny emerald bodice, though I wished I had listened to the still voice of my heart rather than the shrill voice of vanity. Because I felt _all_ wrong _all_ night.

Diana quickly abandoned me for Fred, Ruby for a Mr Dander, Jane for the cool air of the porch, and Gilbert for the refreshment table. He barely spoke to me all evening. Not that I was short of company but when I saw him stride over to me with such a purposeful air I hoped he had some piece of nonsense to share because I dearly needed to laugh. But instead, well -you _know_ what happened, Ida, I told you about that on Saturday. And I had the resentful feeling that if I had not looked so unlike myself he might not have been so... so like _that._

But I am determined Phil Gordon will not get the best of this Island girl. If she's going to play such extravagant pranks she shall have her reply. I shall be a most thrifty minded beast and take that gown to pieces. There are so many yards of satin I could make a jacket _and_ a skirt. Or I could sell it and buy myself ten flowerpot hats! So ho, Phillippa Gordon! You met your match when you met me!

Not that I am thinking of matches. No more talk of matches. Perhaps that is the problem. I have been imagining myself Elizabeth Bennet when I should think like Emma Woodhouse and look to do the matchmaking myself. Diana always did prefer Mr Knightley, the man who was right under Emma's nose. Well of course she would_._ She's marrying the very same boy she met when she was three!

**… … …**

**So now it's full steam ahead for Charlie Sloane's proposal -I don't think I can look...**


	9. Chapter IX

**Ladies and gentlemen, Charlie Sloane...**

**CHAPTER IX -An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend**

_**Tuesday 11th February, 1884, Acton House, Arbour Avenue; Kingsport, N.S.**_

_**Weather: **_snow to thirty inches, light flurries, north-easterly breeze_**  
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_**Ate: **_porridge, cream, molasses, weak tea, milk; mutton and beans, stewed prunes and hot custard, weak tea, milk; pork pie, carrots, turnips, cabbage, pear and currant pudding, custard, warm milk, shortbread (Aunt Peter's not Aunt Lemuel's)_**  
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_**Time: **_10:08 pm_**  
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Greetings diary,

1) Engagement token delivered this afternoon by arrangement. Note jeweller selected an excellent specimen; Grandfather Sloane always maintained unparalleled dental hygiene throughout his life (as mentioned in his eulogy.) Also note his four gold teeth forged into a fair sized ring.

2) Am pleased overall as it-

a) has a sentimental significance

b) suits Anne's singular disposition

c) cost me next to nothing as Grandmother Sloane provided the teeth and fillings as a 'memento mori' to her eldest grandson.

3) Outstanding tasks to be completed by Friday 14th February-

a) refine proposal speech

b) purchase new boot laces

c) recommend Blythe not visit 38 St John's until 8:30 pm as I expect to be speaking to Anne at 8:00. A half hour's grace should suffice, though my speech takes two and a half minutes must also factor in future wife's response -which will no doubt be longer and even more decorous than my own.

Respectfully, C. Sloane

_**Wednesday 12th February, 1884, Acton House, Arbour Avenue; Kingsport, N.S.**_

_**Time: **_11:41pm_**  
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_**Late amendment**_

Blythe finally returned from Debating Society. Was exceedingly obliging over my request he delay his arrival at St John's this Friday. Said he would rather contribute his own teeth toward a matching pair of earrings than interrupt such an occasion. Believe he was in jest however, as on further enquiry he admitted he hasn't one gold filling.

C.S.

_**Thursday 13th February, 1884, Acton House, Arbour Avenue; Kingsport, N.S.**_

_**Weather:**_ snow to thirty-five inches, strong southerly winds_ **  
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_**Ate: **_porridge, cream, molasses, weak tea, milk; curried carrot soup, four bread rolls, suet pudding, custard, rhubarb jelly, weak tea, milk; corned beef, potatoes, carrots, white sauce, butterscotch pudding and butterscotch sauce, cream; warm milk; fruit cake (Blythe's)

_**Time: **_9:46 pm

Greetings diary,

Have finalised speech which shall be delivered as follows-

1) Enter parlour and compliment surroundings including expectation to have such a finely decorated room when we are married.

2) Dismiss everyone except Anne.

3) Allow ten seconds for Anne to catch her breath, blush, and sit down as she becomes faint with the idea.

Note:

If for some reason Anne does not take it upon herself to sit she must be compelled to sit. I do not think it appropriate to propose on one knee when the lady in question is standing, as one's eye line is then at her hip area. Perhaps this was the original intent as it enables suitor to ascertain childbearing qualities. It strikes me now that if she is sitting whilst I kneel I will then be level with her chest area.

(Ten minute interval taken here.)

4) Upon long and comprehensive consideration I believe the best solution will be to sit next to her.

5) Once seated will commence. Have memorised speech but also made up small cards that I will position upon my person (discreetly). To be recited as follows-

6) "Yes, Anne, when WE are married."

(To which Anne exhibits disbelief that such distinction should be granted to a simple orphan girl, and I begin speech proper)

7) "Dearest Anne, did you not know

As we sit here in the snow

And the coldest winds do blow

Whither where I do not know (repeat)

How much I adore you so

The heart that beats inside me here (point to chest)

Is as red as your red hair

And it is for you it crows

Like the freckles on your nose

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven

You and I were made in Heaven

I know that you can be quite surly

Never mind that dear Anne Shirley

You are my Princess of Perfection

You owe to me your sweet affection

I owe to you this blessed ring (produce ring)

When you see it you will sing

With disbelief that you could be

An actual Sloane of Avonlea

Though I must admit my mother

Would prefer I pick another

But when she sees you feel this honour

You shall see a smile upon her

You are my wife forever more

In my mind if not in law

Say yes now and let us kiss (ensure she does not seek a kiss at this specific moment but waits for final line)

After which you may tell Priss

That your dream is now my own

Not just Anne Shirley

But Anne Sloane!

So my dear, what do you say,

Will you be Mrs Sloane one day!"

**... ... ...**

_**Friday 14th February, 1884; Acton House, Arbour Avenue; Kingsport, N.S.**_

_**Weather: **_snow to forty inches, no perceptible wind

_**Ate: **_to be delineated when I am in a cooler humour

_**Time: **_9:02 pm_**  
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Well diary!

I don't know who has offended me most -the so called 'Princess of Perfection', Anne Shirley, or my so called 'best chum', Gilbert Blythe. Initially the fellow seemed keen for a report on this evening's events. Then just as I was recounting my valiant tirade against the fox haired ingrate for refusing me, he rudely interrupted with an unfathomable "You said what!" socked me on the jaw with his pillow, and bolted down the stairs! Such bizarre behaviour! Why ask me to repeat what I said and then leave before hearing it? Cannot comprehend how Blythe confused my meaning in the first place. I merely stated the facts, which were:

1) That Anne could be the offspring of some murderous duo for all we know.

2) That her red hair confirmed her dubious parentage, as did her terrible temper.

3) That I didn't want my distinguished Island pedigree tainted with her questionable history after all.

I accept these were harsh truths to hear. But that does not excuse Anne's despicable reply; declaring with an unbecoming bitterness that she would rather never marry, never have children, than ever have me! The unnaturalness of her sentiment forces me to conclude she has been influenced by the Spinster Cuthbert after all. If Anne won't take the handsome son of a prominent family she means to end an old maid.

Had previously suspected Blythe competed for her affections. An idea supported by that brazen Miss Gordon who believes that he and Anne aren't bickering at all -but flirting. Yet the fellow had no gripe with my conjugal intentions. And now I know why. I should not be surprised if Anne caused irreparable damage to Blythe's head when she broke that slate over it. What with his strange proclivities for push-ups, underwear, word-games and gooseberry jam. Now he assaults me with soft furnishings and dashes from the room. Where on earth does he think he is going at 9:23 pm on a Friday evening? Without me.

I almost pity the fellow, but I am not the least sorry for myself. Rather I am thankful that I have been spared the nastiest of fates; left to the tender mercies of a speckle faced shrew! Anne Shirley may read all she wants now. No one shall care if she comes to spectacles and crooked seams.

Though I shall mind if I lose a digit. Before I left 38 St John's for the last time I thrust my engagement ring over my pinky and then under Anne's nose so that she might see what she had cast away so foolishly. Finger is currently purple so must conclude this entry and seek Mrs Causton for a pot of goose grease. Now there is a lady who knows how to treat a fellow.

Respectfully, C. Sloane

**… … …**

**_February 14th St John's, Kingsport, climbing into my bed and out of the depths of despair  
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Well Ida, that was unexpected.

First Charlie, then Gilbert. Or should that be first Billy via Jane, then Charlie, then Gil. Each one behaving more bewilderingly than the last. No that is not fair, Gilbert is behaving precisely how I wish he would. It is only that I cannot get used to it.

He just returned to Arbour Avenue but not before I wound my plainest, warmest scarf about his neck. Downstairs I can hear the sounds of people playing cards, chinking their tea cups, scolding some tricks and cheering others. Beyond that are streetcars churning their way through grey drifts of snow, and beyond that the gay sounds of the Valentine's Ball I was all set to attend. That was until Charlie Sloane declared he had a grave matter to discuss with me this Friday evening.

I carelessly assumed it concerned our people in Avonlea -old Grandfather Sloane has recently departed this life and I wondered perhaps if his last will and testament had some consequence for Green Gables. I admit I built a rather grand castle upon those flimsy foundations. Imagining the old miser had some secret agreement with Matthew, and that Marilla might be freed from financial woes forever.

Then Charlie arrived in his best tartan suit, his hands clammy, his eyes on stalks, and I had this sickening sense he meant to present me with a Valentine. How I wished I had Priss or Phil or any chum by my side. But of course they had gone to The Lord Nelson in their furs and furbelows -and I knew Charlie would come to the Sloanish conclusion that I was wearing my fluted blue taffeta for _his_ sake. I had no chance to speak, however, as he immediately began extolling the virtues of all forty-three cushions in the parlour before crushing two as he sat on them.

It took me a good half minute before I became sensible to what followed being so preoccupied with what those fat checked trousers were doing to Ada's crewelwork. I believe it was when I heard the words _freckles_ that I began to comprehend I was neck-deep in the very Sloanest of marriage proposals. Even then I kept expecting Gilbert to appear at any moment and declare the whole thing a comic attempt to avenge his loss in the debate last Wednesday.

There was nothing to laugh at, however, there was only Charlie Sloane flourishing the most macabre creation I have ever seen. A gold ring set with a molar from Hasadiah Sloane's own mouth! Somehow I had to summon the words to politely but firmly decline Charlie's offer. I can't tell you what a trial it was when I was _boiling_ inside! To have missed the Ball, to have to listen to Charlie impress upon me the honour of becoming a Sloane, to know I should to have to explain _yet again_ why the parlour cushions had been butchered, to have the memory of that ring imprinted on my mind _forever_, and most of all to think that Charlie Sloane believed _I _wanted _him_ for a husband! How I clung to dignity vowing that I would _never,_ _ever_ let a Sloane bring me to anger.

I failed miserably.

I like to think I might have contained my temper had Charlie kept his insults to my own faults but when he began slandering the character of my_ parents!_ Oh Ida, I was wretchedly cruel and tearful and ugly and hotheaded. As though I had never altered or improved since the day Matthew brought me home from Bright River.

I can laugh about Billy. I know Jane only intended to bring happiness to her brother, I wish she might have thought a little more of my own -but that is forgotten now. _Now_ I remember what _true_ humiliation is and felt again the piercing desolation I endured after breaking that slate over Gilbert's head. Wondering _why_ when all I wanted was to be let alone with my dreams I had to be singled out and shamed for it?

Well I was determined to claim what pretty joys remained and hoped to salvage the evening and go to the Ball in time for supper. There was only the matter of two puffy, red rimmed eyes. So I went to the front garden in order to chill two teaspoons in the snow when who should arrive but Gilbert Blythe. Oh_ I _knew _he_ knew _all_ about it the moment I saw his face. And asked how he _dared_ to let Charlie propose without warning me, and told him as his loyalties clearly lay in _that_ quarter he had better leave again as Sloanes and _all_ their ilk were persona non grata in this establishment.

'What right have I to stand in a fellow's way?' he asked me.

'Well why are you here then?' I said, understandably perplexed.

'Being a friend', he replied.

It was then I noticed the baffling boy had come to St John's without his coat! That was all I needed. Forget this boarding house the whole of Avonlea would never allow me to set one foot on her red shores if I should break the heart of one of their sons and cause the death of another. And within the next moment we were sitting on the parlour carpet devouring tea and toast and laughing over what made me cry only minutes before.

'So you don't want Charlie', Gil began, 'but dare I ask', he said, popping a cushion on top of his head, 'what you _do_ want?'

It was such a cosy, close moment. Because I like nothing better than to talk of _ships and sails and sealing wax and cabbages and kings_. I looked into the fire as it crackled like an old friend and began unfurling my dreams -the shy and quiet one of writing a story like Margaret Burton published in 'Canadian Woman', and grander fancies of castles in Spain, of white stone and white heat, and a boat trimmed with sails of lapis lazuli. But reality would intrude and I noticed that while I was sailing away on a dream Gil was trying to prize his curly head from the beadwork on Miss Ada's latest. I shuffled over as awkwardly as you can imagine in that big blue gown and proceeded to tease his hair out of a spaniel rendered in bugle-beads, when Gilbert said, 'You smell like home.'

The old Gilbert, the Gilbert of long awkward stares and kissing attempts would have said that I smelled of the first apple blossom or a starlit breeze from the sea. But this Gilbert, this capable, encouraging, friendly Gilbert, only said something very plain and probably true. So how it account for the same violent reaction of wanting to draw back and push him away?

I don't have to consult a book, or a friend, or a palm reader to know it's not Gilbert's fault. It's not Charlie, not Jane or Phil or Josie Pye. It's _me_. It's _all_ in me. I am so _full_ of 'conchadikshuns' as Davy would say (he also said it's lucky a body couldn't really eat them or I would be fatter than Mrs Lynde!) Oh, to be a child again, where the only things I had to worry over were how to divide one cherry tart five ways or whether I would lose my place at the top of the class.

I just wish those two proposals contained _something_ of the ideal I cherished. Diana says there may not be a rose covered balcony to hand when my prince feels moved to speak; that a porch or a field will seem more splendid than 'diamond starbursts and marble halls' once that sacred question is asked of me. What I never told her is that it isn't _where_ it happens or even _what _he says that I dream about most. But how I shall _feel! _As if my whole self beats with the words '_ask me, ask me, ask me!_' whenever I am near him -and even when I'm not.

I doubt Fred Wright ever stirred such ardour in Diana. Though at least he was certain of her affections which is more than can be said for Billy and Charlie. Why are these insipid, spiritless Island boys so set on _me! _How can they understand me so little to think we could ever be happy together? Yet in my heart of hearts I know the Island is the only place I could _ever_ call home. Oh, Ida! I feel so caught between the comforting bliss that Diana has, so secure in her place and her love and her choices, and the wider, wilder world I yearn to know.

Of course I know better than most that the world can wound as well as enchant. I think of what I suffered as a little girl, how hungry I was for love. While Phil has been given all the finery and admiration my girlish heart could have desired and feels _incapable_ of such feeling. Do you know, Ida, I cannot escape the notion -more than that, this _knowing-_ that there is someone somewhere who holds the key to Phil Gordon's heart? What I do _not_ know is if anyone in this wide, wild world aches to be understood just the way I do.

Happy Valentine's Day, Ida my sweet.

**… … …**

**Goodbye Charlie Sloane! Rhyming couplets forever! Now one last chapter and that's the end of the story...**


	10. Chapter X

**Sorry for the delay, I had last chapter blues! I was also undecided whether I should continue this story but I think that I will :o) 'Normously 'normous thanks to my beloved Anne sisters for your incredible support and special thanks to any new readers, I hope you all come along for Redmond Diaries -the second year.  
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**CHAPTER X -Patty's Place  
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_**March 15th, 1894; St John's Street, Kingsport.**_

**Priss Report #51**

There is a light around Anne Shirley. Perhaps she doesn't have red hair at all but simply glows with her own brilliance. I already knew of her capacity for hard work but that is nothing to her talent for squeezing every drop out of life. Running headlong into every possibility Kingsport can offer her; life drawing, choir, poetry, anthropology, amateur dramatics -and that was only this term. How is it possible that she can ponder and play and doodle her days away yet still be the favourite to win the Thorburn?

Gil might offer serious competition but as soon as Anne set her sights on the scholarship for English Gilbert resolved to win the Philology prize. I seriously think he could win both but these days Gilbert and serious have no time for each other. In fact _time_ is something he is also short of. I wonder if he has one of those clocks I read about in 'Kingsport Chronicles' that allows one to travel back to yesterday? I don't know how else he is managing it, if he isn't competing in one thing or chairing another he is escorting someone to something else.

When I say _someone_ I mean Anne. The two of them are inseparable -though I'm usually included in all their antics, which now runs to the final debate against St Stephen's of all things! I really haven't time to prepare, exams are next week -but what does that matter? Mr Rawley is to marry in April just as I am to return home for the summer. And every moment I spend with my chums is one I am not imagining myself storming the church and declaring that I have just cause why he shouldn't marry Miss Dixon after all.

Stella implored me to burn Nate's letter and send back its charred remains. Anne just held me close, soothed my tears, and declared me a third in whatever she and Gilbert do together. Phil thinks it terribly old fashioned the way I 'chaperone' Anne everywhere. Last evening she announced it a mystery how we Island folk _ever_ managed to populate P.E.I. and said she wouldn't be surprised if we built our marriage beds for three as well! Anne looked quite deadly until Gil replied, Well if you miss out in the Kepler prize, Phil, you can always lay claim to putting the pert in pretty! And then the two of them fell into giggles making words from the phrase 'pretty Philippa Gordon'.

I can hear them laughing now. I told them I would fetch my copy of Plato's Republic but what I really wanted to do was escape for a moment. Passions were rising as neither could agree which philosopher said '_that children these days have bad manners, contempt for authority, and disrespect for their elders'_. It is going toward some argument they are hoping to make in our debate next week. I can't follow it, one moment they are invoking Eden and the next footware. Sometimes it can be terrific fun and suddenly I feel so irrelevant and would rather be alone. No it is more than that. I am filled with envy. I want that ease Anne and Gil have -with their course work and with each other.

Some time later...

I have read over this latest entry and am utterly ashamed of my miserable self. I had only just written how excluded I felt when Anne rushed into my room, wrapped her arms about me and announced that she and Gil had abandoned their debate in favour of coffee and cake, and were determined to _drag_ me to Backshall's if necessary. There was barely time to secure my hat before I found myself marching through drizzly streets with Gilbert on one arm, Anne on the other, our cheeks pink and our chatter echoing up the lane.

Gil spotted a 'for rent' sign just opposite the coffee house but on closer inspection the sign only advertised two rooms. I was almost tempted to inquire for the charms of Miss Ada's cushions and my sunless back room are beginning to wear thin. As is my hope of us ever finding a house to rent in Kingsport come September. I feel I must prepare Anne for the eventuality that Stella's idea of us sharing a place together will likely be shelved under 'might have been'. But Anne has such faith in the enterprise. No matter how many houses we leave in disappointment nothing can extinguish her belief that our perfect little palace still waits for us.

To think that my dear chum came to me last year wide eyed and homesick. Now _she_ is the one tugging me by the hand and reminding me of all the sweet possibilities we have yet to discover. What would I do without her?

**… … …**

**23rd March, St John's, with a crumpled head, in my crumpled bed ...and not one regret!  
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To the victor the spoils! And I am certainly spoiled today, my whole head feels like a pat of butter left out in the sun. Not quite the way one who has been nineteen for almost three weeks should rightly behave I am sure. Yet I can't regret any of it, Ida. We had such a lustrous evening last night, I felt as though all of Kingsport were mine!

Forgive me for being such a fat head, I warn you this morning I feel so undone I can barely hold my pen in my hand. But I also have the most _wondrous_ news to relay and hope it might stop swirling inside me if I attempt to pin it down.

_I won the Thorburn Scholarship_, Ida! I won it, I won it!

I am not supposed to know until closer to Convocation. The news came to me during the deliberation of our final debate against St Stephen's. Neil Macdonald (have I mentioned him to you, Ida? He is a Senior and a sub editor for the Redmond Rave, as well as being a first rate dear) ran all the way to Waverley House to let me know. Gilbert has won a scholarship too! Though Neil neglected to share that piece of news at first, it was Phil who wheedled it out of him. Oh, Ida, I don't know who I am happier for!

You know how determined I was not to touch a penny of Marilla's money to cover my costs next year. I even plucked up the courage to talk to Margaret Burton, and she said if I was as clever with a pen as I was with my tongue I could certainly write something good enough for a magazine. _Imagine_ that Ida! Imagine being able to pay for my tuition through _writing?_ Oh I hugged her with all my heart. Then Neil arrived just as the judges declared that Redmond had won the debate and I hugged _everybody_. Gil swept me up in his arms and twirled me so fiercely I thought my skirts would fly over my head! But I didn't care, I am just _so_ happy for him! He had been talking about taking work for the summer near his cousins in N.B. but felt his father had more need of him on the farm. Now all that worry has disappeared. Oof, I wish my headache would do the same!

I want to say it's Phil's fault -well it was _her_ champagne. Why she had a crate of the stuff I didn't dare to ask. But the people at Wallace St had no scruples keeping our glasses full. Miss Eglantine even joined us for a toast, I believe that one was 'to the Island'. I must admit our little lot have done very well! Considering Priss had almost no time to prepare she performed like a champion! This was the first time Redmond had a mixed team, traditionally the final is given to the men. But Gil -flexing his powers as president no doubt- argued that since the women's team had more victories this year at least one of us should represent Redmond in the final.

I never dreamed we could actually win it. When we discovered the proposition -that things can only get better- I was brimful of conviction. Until we drew the negative and I realised I would have to argue that things _cannot_ get any better. The whole idea went against _every_ fibre of my being, Ida. How could I argue that? When our second speaker came down with bronchitis I almost wished for a dose myself, until Priss declared she would fill the breach -and the chasm in my confidence. 'We may not agree with the argument given us', she said, 'but we must give it our all. This isn't just for Redmond now, _this_ is for the Island!'

Oh, we have had the most killing fun thinking of ways things are not nor will _ever_ get better. We harked back to past glories, to Shakespeare, the Ancients, even to Eden itself. Of course St Stephen's replied precisely as we expected they would, cataloguing every industrial triumph -the railways, the telegram, advances in medicine, and we knew it would come to the most desperate and daring of replies.

All I can say is I am glad that the last word was left to Gilbert. I shall never forget the expression on his face as he looked over at me with eyes that said _do_ _you dare me, Miss Shirley?_ I couldn't stop smiling wildly because I knew exactly what Gil was about to do -and didn't I love him for it- as he slowly, carefully, and with the sternest of faces, removed his boot and dropped it with a thud upon the lectern.

'My boot is a thing' he said. Ida, he was _so_ serious, as though he was some famed explorer revealing his great discovery to the world. 'Would you agree that this is a thing?' St Stephen's had no option but to agree, their clever faces going pale with woeful realisation. The audience, however, took a little longer to understand Gil's meaning. 'It's old, it's worn,' he declared, and then put his nose right up to it and took a deep sniff, 'and smells like a wet dog. Now let us stand here for a moment and observe... if it gets any better?' Well he just stood there taking these good long sniffs and then gravely shaking his head, 'No, still not better ..._still_ not better'

Ida, I was a wreck by now, the insides of my cheeks were ragged. Then the exasperating boy made it ten times worse by _winking_ at me, before taking the boot over to St Stephen's and asking if they would care to smell it for themselves. 'No takers?' Gil said, straight-faced, 'could that be because this thing is _not_ getting better?' Well what could they say? They could either look like fools and argue that Gilbert Blythe's boot improved by the minute or admit that he was right. Oh I could scarcely sum up for laughing!

Well for the remainder of the evening it was boots, boots, boots! There was a moment where I thought we would all be made to sip our champagne from them. To be honest, Ida, I rather wondered if it hadn't been strained through one. Champagne has such a mushroomy taste to it. Not unpleasant but give this Island girl a crispy cold cider any day. _Except_ today. Though I haven't spied my sorry self in the mirror yet I can guess I must look as pale and crumpled as the sheets I am buried in.

I will have to emerge soon, however. Peg has promised me sole use of the kitchen in order to prepare a belated birthday supper for all my friends. I'm making chowder, though it will only have four kinds of seafood. It is just one of the pitiful consequences of being born in March, for not only is every delicious thing always out of season but I am always too busy revising to have time to celebrate properl-

My apologies for that gigantic smear across your page, Ida darling. Wicked Miss Grant just leaped upon me! Now I know how alarmed Josephine Barry must have been -though I doubt she felt quite so wretched as I do. But I can forgive Priss easily enough, for the reason she is so excited is because she made a secret excursion to the fish market this morning and found me some early season clams!

I simply cannot wait to keep house with her, and Stella, and Aunt Jamesina of course! We are going to have the most delicious time together. I can feel it on the mistrally breeze. I can hear it emerge with the crocus buds and out of the beaks of baby birds. I can see it in the sunshine that kisses the green leaves gold; that even now a house, _our_ house, our _darling_ little home is stretching its beams, opening its shutters, and readying itself for our arrival.

**… … …**

_**April 17th, Wallace Street, Kingsport**_

**The Rose Notebook**

Wheeeeeeeeeeee!

There I was dreading my return to Bolingbrook, having only a head cold and a trifling $100 scholarship to show for it and _nothing_ to look forward to but Delia's gossip, Mother's marriage plans, and Alec and Alonzo's perfect adoration of my perfectly stuffed up nose. But _now! _Now I am going to live_ -_not visit, _live-_ on Spofford Avenue! And I didn't even need to marry anyone to achieve it! If one needs a miracle it seems the only thing required is a redhead! No wonder they were treated with such suspicion in the past, Anne Shirley is blessed with such iridescent luck she is positively occult.

According to Prissy the dears at Patty's Place were about to give up the idea of renting completely. Then in waltzes Anne and charms them both in an instant, so that not only has she managed to secure a reduced rent but a good portion of the furniture as well. Not that I imagine such eccentrics will have anything in the way of style. But what do I care when I haven't a stick of my own. Nor a dish cloth nor a cushion -perhaps I should nab one from the St John's parlour? Neither can I make a cup of tea without stewing it or heat up a pot of milk without scalding it. Whenever I attempt the latter I end up with a nasty skin on the top which the Wallace Street maids always peel from the pot and feed to those nasty cats!

Let's just hope there are none of those whiskery, pestilent sorts on Spofford Avenue! Oh let me write it again... _Spofford Avenue!_ To see the look on Delia's face when I tell her where I shall be living come September! I believe Alec's cousin lives just along from us -or was it Alonzo's uncle? I shall never remember and I couldn't care less. I am nothing but _determined_ to be the very best of housemates. I mean to ask Cook to teach me some simple recipes. Nothing too tedious, perhaps eggs would be the best -who knew how baffling they could be? Both times I attempted to boil one it went _grey!_ Won't those girls be surprised when I fix us all supper. But then I would need to know how to make toast which means I would need to know how to make bread! I think the best thing to do is ask Papa for an increase in my allowance so that I can pay this Jamesina to do all my chores for me.

I am going to Eaton's now in order to buy Anne a tiny goodbye present. I know I've spent a fortune on her already but for some reason -one that I am certainly responsible for- she has taken to wearing the most trifling, frivolous things. Not that I am sorry to see her give up that bulky green thing she used to wear. But while a tiny scrap of silk might look becoming on a mild afternoon the evenings are still so brisk that every time I see Anne's long, bare neck I want to scoop her up and pop her in my fur-lined pocket. Well, I mean to show her that _I_ can be practical too, and will surprise her with the most _sensible_ gift! No mink, no satin lining, just a simple mohair with perhaps the tiniest touch of rabbit fur trim -now _how_ could an Island girl find fault with that!

**... ... ...**

**22nd April, Acton House, Arbour Avenue, Kingsport**

I can do this.

I can win a scholarship, I can score the winning goal. I can do three hundred push ups and run around the park twice. I can share a room with Charlie Sloane for an entire year and I can share the St John's parlour with five other fellows. I can pack away my life into one trunk and submit to the lingering embraces of a rather affectionate landlady. I can take Anne in my arms and pull her so close to me I feel her breath in my hair and still maintain the resolve to put her down again. I can look at her and laugh when I want to say I love you.

I can do all that.

The only thing I cannot do is give back her scarf.

**... ... ...**

**THE END**

**Wishing you Anne-ish love, Gilberty joy, and a Green Gables-tastic New Year! :o) **

**I am currently working on 'the second year' which covers the next ten chapters of Anne of the Island, including (spoiler alert or maybe that should be downer alert) Ruby's death, Averil's Atonement, and Gilbert's proposal.  
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